


Beyond the Pale

by Jadis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadis/pseuds/Jadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after HBP: Postwar. With less than 130 days left on his sentence, the velvet-lined walls of Draco Malfoy’s prison begin tumbling down, revealing closely guarded secrets and unspoken truths</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Pale

  
**Prologue**  
  
Wringing his hands, Dobby nodded, his neck cracking with the effort. “Dobby understands, sir. Master Malfoy can’t use magic. Poor Master Malfoy.”  
  
Glancing sharply at the house-elf, Harry asked, “Dobby – is this going to be a problem for you?”  
  
Dobby cocked his head, “Forgiving me, Sir – Dobby’s not understanding your meaning, Mr. Harry Potter.”  
  
“I mean – what with your having served the Malfoys first.”  
  
Dobby shook his head so vehemently Harry wondered that it didn’t fly right off. “Oh no, sir, Mr. Harry Potter sir. Mr. Harry Potter freed Dobby, sir. Dobby is most loyal to Mr. Harry Potter sir.” He wrung his hands. “Yet – ”  
  
Harry waited. He’d learned years ago that trying to rush Dobby would invariably complicate matters.  
  
“ – Young Master Malfoy, he was always a fragile child. Him without magic? He’d almost be defenseless.”  
  
Harry hid a snort behind a cough and managed to look stern. “Listen to me: it was either this or back to Azkaban. Would that have been better?” He shook his head, irritated with the house-elf, and the situation all together really.   
  
Harry’s year had just completed their delayed seventh year, and it was just now hitting home what his plea to pardon Malfoy from the dementor’s kiss was actually going to cost him.  
  
“But, begging your pardon, Mr. Harry Potter sir, I saw Master Malfoy at Hogwarts, this last term. He was using his wand then, sir.”  
  
“Yes, he was. Special dispensation so he could finish his education. But they’ve taken it from him now. And he’s unable to use magic for the duration of his sentence.”  
  
“How long, sir?”  
  
Harry sighed, before answering, wishing the Wizengamot had chosen some other way.  
  
 _“Mr. Potter. The court recognizes your unique position on the night in question – the night of the murder of Albus Dumbledore. And, we have examined your testimony under Veritaserum and found it to be factual. Given that it was your testimony that undoubtedly swayed this court’s decision on the matter of Draco Malfoy, it is our esteemed opinion that Mr. Draco Malfoy is found not guilty in the murder of Albus Dumbledore.  
  
However, it was through his contrivances and through his initiation that Death Eaters were allowed to breach Hogwarts wards and thereby endangering innocent children. Further, his part in this horrific event furthered the circumstances that led to the death of Albus Dumbledore.  
  
The Wizengamot, in taking into consideration time already spent in Azakban, while awaiting trial, will commute the sentence of ‘Dementor’s Kiss’. However, until such a time that the court feels Mr. Draco Malfoy can be safely released into society, a binding spell will be placed on him – connecting him to you, Mr. Harry Potter.’  
  
The stands went wild.  
  
“Order! Order! Mr. Malfoy will be in your control, in your care undergoing routine medical evaluations and taking mandatory remedial Muggle training. The court hands down an obligatory five year binding time.  
  
Mr. Potter, you are, of course, not bound by this decree. Azkaban is always an option for Mr. Malfoy.” _  
  
Potter fumed even now, a year later, recalling how neatly they trapped him. He believed the saying went: ‘Hoist on his own petard’.   
  
What little color Malfoy still had after seven months in Azkaban, had drained from his face as he had awaited Potter’s decision.   
  
Fool that he was, Harry had agreed. He was a Gryffindor for the love of God, his savior complex well documented.   
  
Snapping back to the moment, he answered Dobby. “Four years. If you can imagine it.”  
  
Dobby nodded, his entire body shaking in earnestness. “So, no magic for Master Malfoy, sir? For four years?” He squeaked out the number of years, making it sound more like 40.  
  
“That’s right. If Malfoy so much as a puts a toe out of line and uses magic, the Wizengamot will toss him back in to Azkaban.”  
  
A whine was torn from Dobby’s throat.  
  
“So you see, it is imperative he and we ensure that doesn’t happen. I must be absolutely certain of your loyalty. Otherwise, you’ll have to return to Hogwarts for the duration.”  
  
Dobby’s moan was muffled by his long fingers as he stuffed them into his mouth. “Oh no, Mr. Harry Potter sir. Dobby stays here. Dobby takes care of Master Potter and Master Malfoy.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Right then. But if Mr. Malfoy – he couldn’t quite force the ‘master’ past his throat – if he asks you to procure anything outside the normal household requests you must let me know before you fetch it for him. Do you understand?”  
  
Dobby nodded, and again Harry wondered how his neck didn’t snap. “Yes sir. Dobby understands, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Mr. Harry Potter is the boss of Dobby and the boss of Master Malfoy.”  
  
Harry’s lips twitched and he decided maybe he needed to limit Dobby’s exposure to Muggle television – particularly the American rot.

 

**Night**  
  
 _“SIRIUS! SIRIUS!”  
  
Over and over, Sirius slowly disappears through the veil, back arching slightly, eyes wide in shock as he fell through again and again.  
  
No….no….no…..no…..HE – IS – NOT – DEAD. NO. NO. NO.  
  
A triumphant female scream from my left, and then deranged laughter. “What’s the matter, little baby Potter? Did you love him? Did you LOVE him? Are you here to avenge my dear cousin?” She’s baby-talking like she’s speaking to an infant  
  
“CRUCIO!” I scream.   
  
She falls to the floor but is up almost immediately. “He’s gone, Potter. And a word of advice: don’t throw an Unforgivable unless you mean it.” Eerie laughter filters from her lips.   
  
Suddenly, she’s sobbing, “Master, master – I TRIED – I TRIED…”  
  
“Shut up, Bellatrix!”   
  
My head explodes. The pain, like nothing….nothing. The Cruciatus a mild itch in comparison.   
  
“Kill me now, Dumbledore,” my voice croaks. At least I’ll see Sirius again……  
  
You killed him….you killed him…..you had to be the hero, had to be the hero…..arrogance….great painful sobs filled the room…….lungs bursting…..Let me die…..let me die…….let me die……  
  
Sirius fell one last time……_  
  
Shooting upright, Draco barely stifled a scream. Forcing himself to calm down, Draco inhaled and exhaled slowly. Throwing back the sweat-drenched covers, he fumbled for the lamp at his bedside table. Almost toppling a glass of water, he righted it and blinked at the brightness as the light came on.   
  
Limbs still not cooperating fully, Draco stumbled to his desk. Still shaking from the after effects of the dream, he dropped into the damask desk chair and quickly turned on the desk lamp as well. “Ancient Earth Magic” lay where he’d left it. Quickly opening the book to the spot he’d been using for the last week, Draco skimmed the text. He’d had Dobby bring this particular volume because of the protection the knowledge within would bring him. Nowhere did it mention that ‘dream-walking’ was a possible outcome of the casting.   
  
He slammed it shut, and rested his head on the cracking leather. It smelled old, with a slight tang of mildew. He breathed in centuries of wisdom and usage and wondered if he was losing his mind.   
  
Allowing the dream to once again replay in his mind, Draco shivered. “However did you survive, Potter?”   
  
  
**123 days**   
  
Three-plus years and nothing had changed. Every morning, Draco Malfoy had his cup of tea, toast and marmalade, then flooed to the Ministry of Magic. Every night, he flooed back to Potter’s house, inspected the prize Dobby had extracted from Malfoy Manor for him, and after a solitary supper, it was up to his rooms. Same thing, day after day, year after year. Until last week.   
  
After requesting mundane, even nonsensical, items over the past few months – shelves full of almost worthless books, drawers full of his mother’s porcelain trinkets - Draco had risked bringing back “Ancient Earth Magic”. It had been a calculated risk, but a necessary one. He needed help. Now, unexpectedly, he found himself walking through Harry Potter’s dreams…becoming Harry Potter.  
  
The last five nights had been enlightening, to say the least.  
  
Draco pushed away the plate of half-eaten steak and kidney pie, and pulled today’s acquisition toward him. The foreign characters embossed on the faded brown leather hinted of an answer.   
  
As he made to open it, the door flew open and in walked “Mr. Wizard.”  
  
Potter flashed a toothy smile, eerily reminiscent of Gilderoy Lockhart’s, before he spoke. “Good evening, Malfoy.”   
  
“Potter.” Draco forced his tone into one of gentility one expected when addressing one’s benefactor. Or jailor.  
  
As Potter shrugged off an ermine-lined cloak, slinging it carelessly over a high-backed dining room chair, Draco took in the tailored pants and triple-milled cotton shirt. Draco considered him carefully. Here, in fact, was another thing that had changed.  
  
Potter was completely different than he’d been at Hogwarts. It had been such an abrupt shift, that Draco couldn’t just lay it off as the speccy git having finally grown up. It happened overnight, just as Draco was released into Potter’s care for the duration of his sentence. One of the most noticeable differences was Potter’s abrupt change of style. His ill-fitting Muggle clothes were gone, and in their place was a very expensive wizarding wardrobe.  
  
As if sensing Draco’s gaze, Potter turned to him, eyes falling on the aged book sitting on the table. “Latest acquisition from the manor?” Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the sideboard and served himself tea.  
  
“Yes,” Draco answered simply.   
  
“What is it?” Harry inquired.  
  
Living with Potter for so long had given Draco enough insight to know that Potter really couldn’t care less. “Old family tome,” he responded, “in Old English. Care to have a look?”  
  
Potter turned back, casting his eyes toward the fireplace. “Uhm, love to, but I’m just here for a tick. Off to Dean’s art exhibition in Muggle London.”  
  
Leaving so soon? How shocking. “He was always the most talented of you lot,” Draco responded.  
  
Their eyes met for a long moment, and Draco felt a spark, a connection of sorts. A pang of longing threatened to rise up and choke him.  
  
“Why don’t you come with me, Malfoy?”  
  
Draco froze, unable to tear his eyes away. How long had it been since Potter had asked him to do anything? Not that Draco had ever accepted. “Thanks for the offer, Potter, but I think I’ll stay here.”  
  
The moment fractured and Potter was once again Witch Weekly’s All Time Winner of Most Covers.   
  
“Can’t wait to dive into your book, eh?”   
  
Draco nodded; it was easier.   
  
“Old English, you say? Need me to cast a translation charm before I go?”  
  
Surprised for the second time in just as many minutes, he forced himself to once again meet emerald eyes. “Thank you. But I’m fluent in Old English.”  
  
“Right,” Potter responded after a beat. Silence hung and he finally took a drink of his tea. Sputtering, he slammed the cup down.   
  
Draco was surprised it didn’t shatter.   
  
“Dobby!” Potter roared.  
  
With an ear-splitting crack, the house-elf appeared. Draco watched in surprise as Dobby cringed in front of Potter. “Yes, sir, Mr. Harry Potter, sir?”   
  
“Dobby, how many times have I told you I hate cold tea?” He flung his hand toward the pot. “The tea is stone cold.”  
  
 _As is your tone,_ Draco thought.   
  
“Can’t you even get a simple warming charm correct?” Potter’s arms were crossed in front of him and Draco found himself feeling sorry for the elf that probably hadn’t been treated like this since he’d been set free from Lucius.  
  
Draco glanced down at his own cup. The tea was cooling it was true, but it was hardly stone cold.   
  
Catching Draco studying his cup, Potter grimaced and looked pointedly at Dobby. “I don’t have time to stand around here and wait for you to get it right. But you will get Malfoy something palatable before the thunder dies. Do I make myself clear?”  
  
Malfoy carefully kept his eyes averted. Potter was getting worse every day.  
  
Dobby bowed and Draco saw him surreptitiously wipe away big tears as he backed away. “Yes sir, Mr. Harry Potter sir. I’m much aggrieved, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Master Malfoy, sir. Dobby is much aggrieved.” And with another CRACK, he was gone.  
  
“He’ll be back shortly, Malfoy. My apologies for the terrible service. He is normally much better – but you know that, don’t you?”  
  
Draco kept his eyes down, and murmured his assent. He couldn’t afford to get into an argument with Potter. Besides, who was he to tell Potter how to deal with his house-elf? It wasn’t as if he’d ever treated Dobby any better when he was in service at the manor.   
  
Potter made one last shove at the offending teacup on the sideboard. “He’ll be back shortly, ” he repeated. Grabbing up his cloak, he threw it over his shoulders. He withdrew his wand and then stopped. “You don’t mind if I change in front of you, do you?”  
  
Draco started in his chair, almost knocking his cup around as well.  
  
Laughing, Potter did a quick transformation and where his cloak had been was now an expensive Muggle suit coat – one of the nicest Draco had ever seen.   
  
Draco looked down at his own Muggle jeans and silk shirt, knowing his face was flaming, caught in the double entendre as Potter had no doubt intended. _Son of a bitch. Why not try changing into something a bit more out of character? Say a human being, for instance?_  
  
His eyes flickered over Potter and his new outfit. It _was_ a nice suit, he begrudged.  
  
“Well, I’m off then,” Potter commented. He made a ridiculous flourish with the floo powder and disappeared through the fireplace.  
  
Closing his eyes, Draco drew in long, steadying breaths. He closed his fingers over the edges of the book, feeling the aged leather give slightly beneath his clenching grasp.   
  
This one.   
  
Maybe this one will explain what the hell was going on between him and Potter. Some sort of strange juxtaposition due to the binding spell, perhaps? Brought on by the casting?   
  
Draco shook his head, trying to clear it. It was absolutely amazing how Potter had turned into exactly what Draco used to accuse him of being: He was an attention-seeking glory hound and all around prat. Truth be told, Draco was disappointed.  
  
A disquieting CRACK sounded, startling him. The brown betty teapot lid rattled and Draco realized the elf’s hands were still shaking. He kept silent as Dobby served him tea. The milk and a platter of teacakes appeared magically.   
  
“Did you need anything else, Master Draco?”  
  
Draco frowned, but then relented when he saw tears form in Dobby’s eyes again. “No, Dobby. I’m fine.” He reached for one of the treacle tarts. “Thank you. These are my favorite,” trying not to gag at the overly sweet confection that Potter actually favored.  
  
“Oh, thank you, Master Draco, sir. Are you sure you don’t need anything else, sir?” Dobby’s voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Something from the manor, perhaps?”  
  
Draco leaned towards the house-elf. “Dobby, why would you think I’d like you to go the manor? You’ve already been for the day.”  
  
“Begging your pardon, Master Malfoy sir, but you’re alone this evening and I thought maybe you’d be needing something to entertain you.”  
  
“You thought?” Draco heard but could do nothing to stop the shock and haughtiness in his voice. By all that was magical, he sounded as bad as Potter.  
  
Frankly, he thought he’d had all that drained from him while in Azkaban. The thought of the black nothingness bracketed by never ending misery that was Azkaban made him shiver. Stirring uneasily in his chair, Draco looked down at the house-elf. He certainly understood what it was to be caught in an untenable situation. “Dobby,” he began, his voice pitched lower this time. “What’s this about me needing to ‘entertain myself’?”  
  
Dobby quivered, his head bowed low. “Mr. Harry Potter…he’s left you alone again for the evening, sir.” As if that explained it.  
  
Draco’s frown deepened. Potter always left him alone. What was Dobby on about? Did this have something to do with the dressing down he’d just witnessed? “Dobby? Since when have you cared that Potter is gone in the evenings?”  
  
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Dobby whined. “And no disrespect to Mr. Harry Potter, sir – he freed Dobby sir – ”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Draco cut him off. He’d heard this story a million times.   
  
“ – well, sir – “ Dobby continued, his entire body quavering now. “Dobby thinks Master Draco should be treated better, sir. If Mr. Harry Potter were to stay home – then the other wouldn’t come and hurt Master Draco.”  
  
Draco let out a hiss as he sat back into his seat. So Dobby knew. “Listen to me, Dobby. I’ll deal with ‘the other’. You mustn’t say a word to Potter about that. Understand?”  
  
A whine escaped the elf.   
  
“I’m serious, Dobby.” Draco warned. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of it to Potter.”  
  
Long fingers flew up to Dobby’s mouth, covering it, though horror showed in his large eyes. He nodded vehemently and after a moment spoke through his hands, his voice tinged with regret. “Dobby promises, sir.”  
  
Draco nodded, knowing once the house-elf had made a promise, he was honor-bound to keep it.  
  
Shaken by Potter’s unexpected invitation and Dobby’s devastating pronouncement, Draco suddenly craved the sanctuary of his rooms. Pushing back from the table, he gathered up his book and looked down at Dobby. “Would you please bring the tea things up – ” Breaking off, something else occurred to him. “And Dobby, you must not tell Potter what goes on in my rooms, either.”  
  
“Oh no, sir. Dobby would never tell Mr. Potter about your room, sir.”  
  
“No one is getting hurt, Dobby. And I’m not breaking the terms of my release.” Not exactly.   
  
Dobby nodded, his entire body shaking with the effort. “No, no, Master Malfoy, never. Not tell Mr. Harry Potter about the salt, never, Master Malfoy sir, never. Salt not hurting anything, sir.”  
  
“Good, ” Draco confirmed. “My tea, then?”  
  
“Oh yes, sir. Immediately, sir.”  
  
And with a CRACK he was gone.  
  
Draco knew his tea and the sickly sweet cakes would be waiting by the time he made it up the two flights of stairs.  
  
Tonight. Tonight he’d walk through the landscape of Potter’s dreams. He shivered, but knew he’d cast the circle, nonetheless.  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry flooed to the Leaky Cauldron, quickly brushed off any residual soot, and then made his way into Muggle London. Catching the tube to Kensington Station, within minutes he was up and out, rapidly heading towards the gallery where Dean was having his first Muggle art show.  
  
The gallery was awash in chrome and glass – lights decorously set to show off the artists’ displays. Harry found Dean’s exhibition on the second floor. Incredible black and white muggle shots, some so breathtaking Harry found himself wondering if Dean had used to magic to procure them.   
  
An engaging mixture of close shots of plant life, shocking in their eroticism, lined the walls, intermixed with extraordinarily evocative shots of people – somehow caught in moments that made them appear naked, even though they were fully clothed. Harry saw their pain, their love, their hope, and their fear.  
  
A blonde was suddenly at his side, wrapping her arm possessively through his.  
  
“Hello?” he questioned, accustomed to being fawned over in Wizard London, but not so much in Muggle London.  
  
“Harry Potter,” she purred. “I’ve dreamed of meeting ‘The Boy Who Lived’ for years.”  
  
Ah. Not a Muggle then. “And you are?”  
  
“I’m Allana, a _friend_ of Dean’s.”  
  
The special emphasis on ‘friend’ left little question as to her meaning. Harry inwardly shrugged. He and Dean had shared women before. He colored slightly remembering a couple of blondes they’d picked up one night a bit closer to Knockturn Alley than they should have been.   
  
“Have I lost you already?” she pouted.  
  
“Er – no.” He flashed her one of his trademark smiles, enjoying the way her irises dilated. “Of course not. A woman as beautiful as you? Not likely.” Really paying attention to her for the first time, he realized she was beautiful. Tall, slim, elegantly blonde. Her lips and fingernails a matching shade of shameless red. Oh yes. She’d do nicely. He had to remember to thank Dean for sending her his way.  
  
“So,” Dean began, as he walked toward them. “I see you’ve met Allana.” He reached over and bussed the woman’s cheek. “How are you, darling?”  
  
“Terrific, Dean, thanks to you. And yes –” she continued, “I couldn’t take the chance someone else would snap our Harry up, so I introduced myself.”  
  
“He is a hot commodity these days,” Dean said. He gestured towards the photos. “So what do you think?”  
  
“I think I don’t want to ever let you near me with your camera,” Harry answered. “You seem to have seen into their very souls – plants and people alike.”  
  
Dean grinned and patted Harry affectionately on the back. “You’re safe from me, Harry. I promise. You’ve got enough people taking photographs of you as it is. I saw the latest Witch Weekly’s.   
  
Harry grimaced, “Don’t remind me.” Then he brightened. “Though – I did like the picture inside better than the one on the cover. It helps me to improve my form on my Wronksi Feint.”  
  
“How is Chudley doing this season?” Dean asked. “I’ve been in Italy for most of it. “ He motioned to the artwork again. “That is where most of these shots were taken.”  
  
“Well, they’re doing alright. But if I do say so myself, they do better when I’m playing Seeker.”   
  
“Shame you can’t do it full time,” Dean agreed.  
  
“Can’t do. Ministry keeps me too busy.”  
  
Keeping an eye the blonde’s champagne flute, Harry flagged down a waiter, and snagged her another one. She cooed her thanks, her eyes promising whatever he might want in return. He grinned down at her; he’d take her up on it later.  
  
Turning back to Dean, he heard the artist question, “How’s life with Draco Malfoy these days?”  
  
Harry tightened his hold on the witch at his side and shrugged. “Same as always, I suppose.”  
  
“I’ve never understood – ”   
  
“ – Yes, Dean,” Harry cut him off. “Every time we’ve met for the past four and a half years, you’ve said the same thing.” The blonde began a slow run up his arm with her scarlet nails.  
  
“Has it really been that long then?” Dean cocked his head to the side. “That means you’ll be shot of him soon then, right?”  
  
Harry stilled, suddenly irrationally annoyed with the fawning woman on his arm. “I – I don’t know, really. I guess – I mean – I’ll have to check, but yeah, I guess it is getting close.”  
  
“What will he do?” Dean asked, snagging himself a flute of champagne from a circulating waiter.   
  
Shrugging, Harry scowled. “I don’t know actually. Hadn’t given it much thought.”  
  
Dean glanced sideways at him. “Haven’t you discussed it?”  
  
Harry shifted. “Well, we don’t sit around and have heart-to-heart chats, if that’s what you mean.”   
  
Dean shook his head, grinning. “You’re too much.”  
  
Harry felt compelled to defend himself. “I did invite him tonight and he turned me down flat.” He eyed his friend. “But now that you mention it, seems I haven’t seen you darkening my door, as it were, for – oh, say – four and a half years? Why’s that then?”   
  
Dean laughed, having the grace to look embarrassed. “You’ve got me there.” He shrugged. “Never could stand the tosser, personally. Frankly, I thought you were mad when you agreed to take him.”  
  
“Like I had much choice at the time,” Harry returned.  
  
“You were a saint to take him in,” the witch offered up.  
  
Both Harry and Dean stared at her. Harry had almost forgotten she was there.   
  
She smiled archly. “Your generosity is legend.”  
  
Harry flushed and patted her arm. “Thanks.”  
  
Dean turned back to Harry, “I’ve heard from some of our school chums that Malfoy is different now. Quieter.” He shrugged. “Just thought maybe that meant you and he were civil.”  
  
“We’re civil!” Harry protested. “We spoke before I left this evening.”  
  
“Then why don’t you know what his plans are once he is free?” Dean came full circle, eyebrow raised.   
  
Before Harry could respond, he saw Dean’s agent waving from across the floor, and he pointed toward her.  
  
“I’ll be right back, mate.” Dean excused himself.   
  
Harry found himself alone with the witch – what was her name? He fought the urge to rub his stomach, which was suddenly queasy. Malfoy gone? How did he feel about that? Truthfully? He had no idea.  
  
Still trying to recall her name, he heard a familiar voice and turned. His face broke into a grin, as he caught sight of Hermione. Extricating himself from, uh – Allana? Right, Allana, he crossed to one of his dearest friends.  
  
“Hello Darling!” he called, catching her up in his arms. “How are you?” They kissed and he took in her slim form, hair up in a fashionable chignon. “You look wonderful.”  
  
She laughed, blushing at his compliment. “So do you, Harry. But then again, you always do these days.”  
  
He pulled back and adjusted the lapels on his Italian suit. “Do you like it? It’s not too flashy, is it?” He lowered his voice. “Muggles are more understated than wizards and sometimes it’s hard to know what’s too much.”   
  
He preened under her appreciative gaze, and then continued, “I saw it in the shop the other day and just couldn’t resist it. It was the strangest thing – it’s how I’ve picked up most of my clothes lately!”   
  
“Well, your ‘gut’ seems to be steering you in the right direction.” Smoothing the silky cotton on his chest, she assured him. “You look wonderful. But you know that, you big faker. You spend too much time on the cover of Wizard GQ to not dress well – no matter what the occasion. I still can’t believe how much you’ve embraced your inner publicity hound since we left Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry laughed at her, as he neatly snagged two more glasses of champagne and then moved Hermione towards Allana. “Very funny. Come on, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He ignored his friend’s cooling demeanor and the disapproval that emanated off of her at the introduction.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you,” Hermione said, and then turned to Harry. “But Harry, I need to speak to you in private.” Flashing a fake smile to the blonde, she asked, “Can you spare him for a few moments? Perhaps you should go powder your nose.”  
  
Allana looked nonplussed. “Is it shiny?”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione responded, her voice flat. She pointed toward the flight of stairs. “The loo is that way. ”   
  
As Allana hurried away, Hermione looked up at Harry. “That should keep her occupied for a bit. The loo is in the opposite direction.”  
  
“You’re cruel.”  
  
“You have lousy taste in women. ‘Powder her nose’ indeed. Who even does that these days?” Hermione moved them over into a secluded corner.  
  
“Why the secrecy? What’s up? It’s not Ron again, is it?” Harry was worried. Ron had been in trouble in the last couple of years – too much liquor in a few pubs, both in muggle and wizard London. Ron had certainly lived up to his red-hair. The last scrape he’d gotten into resulted in two muggles being taken to hospital with broken noses, a dozen people having to be obliviated, and Ron with a permanent reprimand in his Ministry file.   
  
“No, not this time, at any rate. It’s about Malfoy. I saw him go into the Infirmary at work the other day. Has he been ill?”  
  
Harry stifled a sigh. Malfoy again. “Not that I’m aware of.”  
  
Hermione plunged on. “I’m worried about him. He’s nothing at all like he was at school.”   
  
Harry watched the cogs rolling in Hermione’s mind and barely avoided rolling his eyes. There was no stopping her when she got on a roll.  
  
“Seriously – Malfoy is even more subdued than he was during our belated seventh year.”  
  
Harry did roll his eyes then. “What did you expect during our seventh year, Hermione? All his schoolmates were dead. His parents. He’d just spent several months in Azkaban. That will change anyone. Even Malfoy.”  
  
“That’s right,” Hermione pounced. “And what I’m trying to tell you is he’s even worse now! Maybe I’ll dig around a bit and see if I can find out if he is alright.”  
  
Harry shot her a look. “Uhm, house arrest or not, Malfoy has some right to privacy, does he not?”  
  
“Well…” she looked away. “His case kind of falls under my area of assignment.”  
  
He raised his eyebrow.  
  
She blushed. “Well, peripherally, anyway. Besides, it isn’t just the trip to the infirmary. I’m worried about him. He’s been very withdrawn the last couple of times I’ve seen him in meetings. Anytime Ron is present, he openly sneers at Malfoy, and Malfoy just stares down at his parchment, almost like he’s comatose.”  
  
“There’s still bad blood between them,” Harry conceded.  
  
Hermione frowned. “Has he said anything to you?”  
  
“Why does everyone think I’m Malfoy’s confessor?” Harry’s voice rose slightly, and Hermione shushed him.  
  
“Oh honestly, Harry! Keep your voice down. You are his guardian, you know.” Her tone made her displeasure known. “I’d have thought you’d have picked up on these things. You’re in meetings with the two of them too, aren’t you?”   
  
“Occasionally, but I haven’t seen anything but the normal posturing they do.”  
  
Hermione worried her bottom lip. “I’m not so sure. I think it might be more. Try to get Malfoy to open up to you. At least pay more attention when he and Ron are together, okay?”  
  
Harry was saved from having to respond as Dean returned, sweeping Hermione into a warm embrace. Harry heaved an inward sigh of relief and procured another drink.   
  
  
  
  
As Harry wound his way through the crowd of people surrounding Dean, Dean saw him and excused himself. “Great show, Dean,” Harry greeted.   
  
“Thanks for coming. My agent says you bought one.”  
  
Harry grinned. “Yeah. I loved the one of the two boys building sand castles.”   
  
Dean slapped his back. “I thought you might like that one. I’m glad you got it. I’ll have it sent round tomorrow.”  
  
“Cheers, mate.”  
  
“So – Allana? I thought you’d like her. She’s right up your alley.”  
  
“What?” Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Come on, Harry. You stay pretty true to form. Thin, tall, blonde.”  
  
“Really?” Harry stiffened. “I don’t know about that.”  
  
Dean laughed. “You’re kidding, right? When was the last time you dated a woman who wasn’t blonde?”  
  
Harry stilled. Dated? Or slept with? No matter, the answer was the same. Not since Ginny Weasley. He closed that door quickly. Shaking his head, he glanced back and saw Dean was closely watching him. “Okay, okay. So I like the fairer of the fair sex.”  
  
“I’ll say,” Dean responded. “I’m not quite sure where you find them all.”  
  
Relaxing, Harry grinned and slapped Dean on the back. “Sure you do. My mates set me up.” He jerked his chin toward the waiting Allana. “See what I mean?”   
  
Dean just laughed.   
  
Harry proffered his hand, and then pulled the man in for a friendly embrace. “Look after yourself, mate.”  
  
“And you,” Dean rejoined.

 

**Night**   
  
_Candles, hundreds of them, ivory, tall, short, fat, taper, all lit. The air is heavy with their perfume. He’s there – awaiting me. Satin sheets barely covering him, as he sleeps face down, skin naked, opalescent, glowing in the candlelight.  
  
Beautiful, unbelievable…like nothing I could ever hope to have. Yet he’s here, awaiting me.  
  
Naked, I approach, stopping at the foot, resting on the iron post, drinking in the beauty of the man before me. Long flowing blond hair, curling at the ends as it rests on his shoulders. His back rising and falling in sedate rhythm as he sleeps. The curve of his ass, one cheek almost showing. My erection surges, fairly slapping against my stomach. I reach to soothe, silently promising: soon, soon.  
  
Reaching down, I graze my fingers over beautifully pale skin. He reacts, moving into my fingers, murmuring my name in his sleep. “Harry.”  
  
Lowering myself to the bed, I run my hand from shoulder to his hip, pushing away the obstructing sheet. My breath hitches and I swallow hard as I take in his perfect form, my own body responding, flushing with excitement.  
  
Leaning down, I tongue the seam between the perfect mounds of flesh. This path leads to his entrance, to heaven.  
  
The beauty beneath my hands groans and pushes his hips up, begging for more. I pull his hips to me now, and slide my tongue further down, deeper into bliss.  
  
“Harry, please – yes!”  
  
I touch the pucker with my tongue, and he cries out, body jerking, begging. But I hold him steady, loving the feel of him clenching, unclenching. My cock jerks knowing soon it will be following the path of my tongue. His scent is sublime: Draco undiluted. I lap hungrily for more.  
  
“Yes!” he moans.  
  
I reach around him, my hand taking over on his straining erection. The head is wet with his desire.   
  
“Hurry, hurry,” his voice plaintive, head turned to look at me, beautiful eyes full of desire, promise.   
  
I’m happy to oblige. _  
  
  
Draco awakened, shaken, breathing ragged. “Dammit to hell, Potter!” Jeez but he is frustrated. But he knows his body won’t allow him the luxury of release. It hasn’t since being incarcerated – at least not outside the circle.   
  
“Candles and white satin sheets? Could you get any more cliché?” Draco rubbed his hand over his chest, considering. The ass play was – well, arousing. Shuddering, his ass clenched in desire. Turning over he punched the pillow in frustration. “Damn you, Potter.”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**107 Days**   
  
Dreaming Harry Potter’s dreams. Not something he’d ever aspired to as a boy, but somehow fitting, Draco mused. He’d spent over half of his life inexplicably caught in the orbit of Harry-fucking-Potter. Draco snorted. Stories of ‘the Boy Who Lived’ had been spooned to him with the same regularity as porridge, milk and tea. The Nanny House-elf who had cared for him as a baby told him stories of the small babe, ‘just your age, young Master Malfoy’ who had destroyed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.  
  
As children, before they understood the ‘politics’ of their families, he Pansy, Greg and Vince took turns being “Harry Potter” as they chased one another screaming and squealing through the Malfoy gardens.  
  
Draco sighed, too tired to recount his and Potter’s tumultuous days at Hogwarts. Now, blood magic bound them. For another 107 days, anyway.   
  
Draco blamed, in part anyway, the binding spell for allowing him access into Potter’s dreams.   
  
He’d combed endless texts over the last fortnight, squinting at the faded hand-written scribbles of witches and wizards centuries gone, trying to comprehend why he suddenly had access to Potter’s dreams. Nothing in the texts about circles alluded to entering another person’s subconscious mind. Yet it was when he began casting that the dreams had come. It had to be the bloody binding spell. Draco just knew it!   
  
Even still, the casting was necessary. The circle provided him a safe haven in which to hone his magic, something he was going to need, if recent escalations by his ‘visitor’ were anything to go by. The visits were coming more often now as well and Draco, quickly doing the math on when his release date was wondered if he’d survive at this rate.  
  
Trying to banish that worry, he latched onto the dreams again. Draco wondered at the variety of subjects covered by Potter’s sleeping mind. Almost all were disturbing. The ones where he, Draco, was involved were the most disturbing of all. In the last three weeks, he – as Potter – had fucked himself through mattresses, against brick walls, in back rooms of pubs, and at Hogwarts: in the belltower, on the Lake shore, in the Quidditch pitch, in the Potions classroom.  
  
One of Draco’s favorites involved being pressed up against the alley wall behind the Leaky Cauldron. The dream-Draco had on a form-fitting set of dragon hide robes, reminiscent of Quidditch attire.  
  
As Potter he’d flipped up the robes and pulled down the breeches only far enough to allow him access, effectively pinning dream-Draco in place. It made for a tight entry, and he loved it. The feeling was like nothing he could have ever imagined.  
  
Dissatisfied with this topic of thought as well, Draco took up his cup of tea, and idly flipped through the black volume sitting on his lap, “Magick Rituals: Scripts and Inspiration,” only half paying attention. He’d memorized it, after all. He needed another one now. Sighing, he wondered if he dared to have Dobby bring it as early as tomorrow. Weighing the chances that Potter might actually pay him more mind than normal against the need for additional information, Draco chewed his bottom lip.  
  
Closing the book, he allowed himself the small luxury of a moment, resting his head against the buttery tan leather of the wingback, eyelids suddenly too heavy to remain open. Images came unbidden from last’s night dream-walking, and he condemned the flush that crept over his body. _Dammit._  
  
Draco wondered just how long Potter had been having sexual dreams about him, about them. It was ironic actually. And more than a little chafing. If the bastard wanted him, why didn’t he do something about it?  
  
 _And you’d do what if he did?_  
  
Merlin only knew. Draco breathed out. He’d spent a good deal of his waking hours asking himself that very question. Not that his answer mattered. Potter’s sexual orientation was well documented, never mind what the wanker dreamed.   
  
Draco considered the women Potter always had on his arm. Perhaps this explained why Potter had damn near slept his way through every blonde witch in England.  
  
A scrabbling noise at the front door startled Draco out of his musing. His cup bobbled, but he caught it without incident. Who the hell would be at the door?  
  
A scraping of metal and wood as the rarely used hinges protested being disturbed. In walked Potter and a ----  
  
Draco gaped. A Muggle girl. Blonde, naturally.  
  
While trying to school his face to one of impassivity, Draco reacted, snatching up the book he’d been reading. _What in the name of Mordred was Potter playing at?_  
  
“Hi!” Potter called, his eyes suddenly intent on the modern art painting on the wall behind Draco’s head.   
  
“Potter,” he returned, voice even. Luckily for Potter he had on Muggle clothing, a curious habit he’d picked up since he’d left Hogwarts. What if he’d been in full wizarding robes when Potter brought home this one?  
  
“This is Belinda,” Potter offered.  
  
Draco took her hand and bowed over it slightly, unsure what the protocol was. Neither the deportment lessons he’d had as a child nor the last several years of enforced “Muggle Studies” covered ‘what happens when your wizard jailor brings home a Muggle because he’s slept his way through every blonde witch in the British Isles’.   
  
“Pleased to meet you, Belinda.” Draco’s voice betrayed none of the fury he felt coursing through his veins. How _dare_ Potter bring home a _Muggle_ as his proxy! He’d kill the son-of-a-bitch one day.   
  
“This is my roommate Drake,” Potter jumped in. “He works for the government.”  
  
Raising his eyebrow at the use of a derivative form of his name, Draco remembered from his enforced Muggle Study classes how preoccupied Muggles were with one’s occupation.  
  
“Oh, really? You’re a civil servant, then?”   
  
Silence hung on for a beat too long and Draco inwardly swore revenge on Potter at the earliest opportunity. _Civil, you say? Servant?_ “Hardly,” he finally responded, his tone ice. “However…” He forced himself to smile. “…I do work for the government.”  
  
“You’re funny,” she commented, and then cocked her head to the side. Actually….” she glanced to Potter and then back. “….we look a bit alike, Drake. Do you have any family in Westham?”  
  
Draco studied her. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “No, I don’t have any family in Westham.” Cocking his own head, mimicking her stance, he relished this. “You know – you’re quite right. We do favor one another.” Now he caught Potter’s eye and was satisfied with the flush he saw on the bastard’s face. “What do you think, _Harry?”_  
  
“I, uh, ” Potter fumbled, face scarlet now. “Well, I…”  
  
Pain lanced through Draco and he decided he’d withdraw the knife. No point skewering oneself when there were so many other people so willing to do it for you. “Well. It was a pleasure to meet you, Belinda. I believe I’ll retire for the evening.”  
  
As he turned to go, inspiration struck. “Oh, Harry?” He paused. “If I should require anything, shall I send Dobby in?”   
  
Potter froze.   
  
Draco struggled to keep a grin from splitting his face.   
  
“Er – I’m sure if you need anything, Dobby is more than capable of handling it.”  
  
“So I should just call **_Dobby_** , then?”  
  
CRACK. Dobby appeared out of thin air.  
  
Hell broke loose. The wizards moved at the same time. Draco swooped the house-elf into his arms and turned to beat a retreat for the stairs. Potter pulled the Muggle into his arms, shielding her from the scene.   
  
“What’s that?” Draco heard her say.  
  
“It’s the cat,” Potter replied.   
  
Draco heard the anger in the other wizard’s voice and quickly made for the second landing.   
  
“Malfoy!”   
  
Still holding the struggling house-elf, Draco looked over his shoulder and into the furious face of Potter. “Yes?”  
  
“I’ll see you in the morning.” Potter’s voice barely veiled the warning.   
  
“Absolutely, where else would I be?” He asked, flippant. Wracking his brain, Draco tried to remember one of the more complicated recipes from his Muggle lessons. “Oh, Belinda – Harry makes a mean Eggs Benedict. Make sure he makes enough for me too, will you? I’ll be down around ten.”  
  
He walked away not waiting to hear her response, chortling to himself.  
  
A Muggle, fancy that. Once he’d hit the upper landing, he put Dobby down. “Dobby, would you bring me some brandy, please – something expensive.”   
  
“Oh yes, Master Malfoy, sir.” With a CRACK he was gone.   
  
  
  
Draco pondered the situation as he entered his room. Anger at Potter’s cheek aside, how had he known she was a Muggle? His exposure to them was limited, at best. There was just something missing from her. She was going to satisfy Potter in his stead? Draco doubted it. She had no magical resonance. No magical signature. Nothing.  
  
Of course, Draco’s ‘magic meter’ had been wrong before. Cheeks burning, he remembered just how wrong he’d been the first time he laid eyes on Harry Potter at Madame Malkins. The magical signature around Potter had been so strong – stronger than anyone he’d ever met in his young life – stronger even than Lucius’. That was why he’d immediately assumed Potter was a pureblood.   
  
Only later had he realized who the scruffy boy was, and that he was a half-blood to boot. Shuddering, Draco put the entire thing out of his mind, and was grateful when Dobby chose exactly that moment to reappear with a decanter of brandy and a crystal snifter.  
  
Draco sniffed the liquor Dobby had just apparated with, swirling the amber liquid lightly. “I have a special mission for you this evening.”   
  
“Of course, Master Malfoy, sir. I is expecting so. What shall I bring you?”  
  
Tipping up the snifter, Draco allowed the liquor to rest lightly on his tongue; he savored the moment. For once he welcomed Potter’s proclivities. He swallowed with relish. After a moment, he sat the glass down and drew out a fresh sheet of parchment. Quickly he wrote down the titles of two books. “I’d like you procure these from the library. And – more importantly – I’d like my mother’s jewelry.” He thought about the healing properties of her jewels. He needed them.  
“Can you manage these?”  
  
Dobby nodded vigorously. “Begging your pardon, Master Malfoy, sir. If Dobby could be so bold as to inquire: are you planning to try and buy your freedom? Dobby could gain access to members of the Wizengamot’s residences, Master Malfoy sir. If you’d like to bribe them, Master Malfoy sir….”   
  
Buy his what? Draco glared down at the house-elf. “Don’t be ridiculous!”   
  
Dobby wrung his hands. “Of course not, Master Malfoy, sir. Dobby is just a stupid servant. Never mind, Master Malfoy, sir.”  
  
Looking up, Draco shook his head, and Draco found himself half mulling the thought over, half wondering what all Dobby might have once done for Lucius.  
  
“But Master Malfoy, sir,” Dobby continued. “Are you sure you that is all you need Dobby to bring back?”   
  
“Yes, Just these two books and my mother’s family jewelry. The jewelry box is secreted in her formal robes wardrobe, at the very back.” He carefully wrote down the detailed directions, the specific formation Dobby would have to touch in the knotholes in order to access the cache. He’d never dared to have Dobby bring back so many things that actually meant something to him. But given this unexpected opportunity, he decided to risk it. Potter – if up to snuff – would be occupied for several hours, at least.  
  
“But Master Malfoy, Dobby can carry much, much more than two books and Mistress Malfoy’s jewelry case. Perhaps you’d like Dobby to bring back some of Master Malfoy Senior’s things, sir? From his ‘personal’ library, perhaps?”  
  
Draco paused, thinking of all the things known and unknown to him that Lucius had hidden away in that library. Merlin, but it was tempting. But with a little more than three months left on his sentence now, it was a bit late to be contemplating a jailbreak.   
  
“No, Dobby, nothing from Lucius’ library. Just those two books from the _family_ library. Understand?”  
  
Dobby’s head hung as he nodded, silent for once. With another ear-popping CRACK, he was gone.  
  
“Nice one, Potter, “ Draco spoke to the mocha colored walls of his bedroom. “Thanks for the opportunity.”

 

  
**99 days**  
  
Harry jolted awake, heart racing, chest clammy with sweat. The goddamned dream. Again. A rustle in the expensive sheets next to him made his heart stop as he saw platinum hair peeking out from beneath.  
  
 _Oh no._  
  
An arm freed itself from the bedlam of bedclothes, arcing lazily toward him.   
  
Relief and disappointment warred in his mind as he realized it was much more diminutive than the one in his dreams.  
  
And the hair, while the shade was the same, the cut was shorter than the dream, more like back at Hog— _No!_ His mind clamped down on the thought.  
  
Pink nails grazed his arm. “All right, love?” a feminine voice murmured, heavy with sleep.  
  
Harry felt his breathing return to normal and he reached over, picking up her hand, bringing it to his mouth for a reassuring buss. “It’s fine, darling. Go back to sleep.”  
  
As she burrowed down, he stared at the shaft of light that fought against the heavy drapes over his bedroom window. He saw dust motes hanging in the air. An incandescent rage burned through him and for a moment he saw red. That bloody elf could do a damned site sight better job keeping the house in order, or he’d send the little layabout packing…  
  
Then, as quickly as the thought entered his head, he wondered where the hell it came from? Glancing around the room with fresh eyes, he could see no evidence of dust – or anything out of order other than the clothes which lay strewn everywhere from his and – uhm – oh yes, Sabrina’s quick disposal of them.   
  
“Sabrina?” he’d asked, when they’d met the night before at a political fundraiser for Neville.   
  
“Yes, I know,” she responded to his unasked question. “My mum’s muggleborn. I guess she couldn’t resist, you know?”   
  
Harry had laughed.  
  
“It gets worse.” She’d dropped her voice. “I have an older sister named Samantha.”  
  
Now he found himself waking up with another unwanted blonde, and wondered how to quickly dispose of her. With the lingering aftermath of his dream fresh in his mind, he was suddenly loath to have her accidentally run into Malfoy downstairs. It was Saturday, and inevitably his ‘housemate’ was home.

 

**Night**  
  
 _Kill the spare…….kill the spare…..the spare….the spare….Killing green light. Cedric falls. “Noooooooooooooooo!”  
  
“DON’T KILL CEDRIC…..DON’T KILL CEDRIC!”  
  
“Who’s Cedric? Your boyfriend?” Dudley sneers.   
  
“Avada Kedavra!”   
  
Killing green light  
  
  
“NO!!” The wail brutal to hear.  
  
“Harry, take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents.”   
  
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”_  
  
  
Draco sat upright, sweat pouring off him. Again. After all Potter had seen during the war, and Draco knew he’d had seen a lot, he still dreamed Diggory’s death more often than any other.   
  
Rubbing his eyes, and crawling out of bed, knowing he’d have to call Dobby to change the bedding, Draco stood, shivering as the sweat dried in the cool night air. The only thing Potter dreamed of more than Diggory’s death was having sex with Draco.  
  
Draco wrapped his arms around himself and gently rocked from side to side. It was small comfort. Small comfort indeed.  
  
  
 **94 days**   
  
Draco didn’t have to feign boredom. What he had to feign was indifference. Subjugating his rage grew more difficult each month as his release date crept nearer.  
  
The room was minimally furnished, like an office hastily put together with left over bits and pieces of unused furniture, all of it wooden and badly scarred up. No windows. In case he decided he couldn’t take any more and take a header out the fourth floor, he supposed. Every time he was here, he wondered why it was they housed this dusty uncared for office on the fourth floor. “Spell Damage”; were they just waiting for the binding spell to go wrong? His luck it bloody well would and all.  
  
“Now Mr. Malfoy,” the Medi-witch began. He’d stopped trying to remember their names over the years. They all looked the same anyway, forty-something, dour, hair pulled back into a severe bun, tucked under a ridiculous white hat. Rotund or thin, they were all the same as they peered over wireless glasses at the parchment in his rather thick file. He focused on her tiny glasses perched precariously on her nose as this one glanced between the records and Draco himself. He found himself wondering if the specs were a prerequisite for being a medi-witch, or just part of the dress code.   
  
“How are things at home? Going well, are they?”  
  
 _If you’re going to answer the bloody question yourself, then why the hell ask me?_ He bit his tongue to keep his thoughts from spilling out of his mouth. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he responded. “It’s not my home. It is my prison. Things are as well as can be expected.”  
  
The quill made soft scratching noises as she took notes. “So? Mr. Potter makes you feel like a prisoner?”  
  
Draco stilled the sharp intake of breath before she could see it. Dammit, but he’d fallen right into that, hadn’t he? Another slow breath in and out. He knew he had to take care and be more cautious. Everything he said or did was reported straight to the bloody Wizengamot.   
  
He forced the corners of his mouth up into his most winning smile, wincing as the muscles in his jaw protested. “Of course not. He has graciously opened his home to me. I am most grateful.”  
  
“Uh-hum,” she responded, making more notes. She shifted pages around, seemingly searching for something. After a moment she set the papers down and picked up her wand. “Please stand, Mr. Malfoy. I’m going to perform the standard detection spells on you – to make sure no one has tampered with the wards and spells placed upon you by the order of the Wizengamot.”  
  
Draco stood, closing his eyes, not wanting to watch as the tell-tale spells lit up, illuminating his metaphorical shackles and chains.  
  
After a few minutes, she released him from his stiff pose. He sat back down, slumping into the chair, giving up any pretense of ambivalence.   
  
The quill scratched furiously, and with the exception of that, the room was silent for long moments.   
  
“I was checking your past visits and based on the injuries you’ve had, I went ahead and ran a quick medical diagnostic – ”  
  
Stung, Draco looked up, heat running high in his cheeks. “How dare you, without telling me first!”  
  
She looked down her nose. “It has been part of the procedure for the past several months, sir. Surely you were aware.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Draco’s voice dripped ice even as he felt his stomach lurch.   
  
“You’ve had an abnormal number of injuries in the last year, sir. We’ve had to report that to your committee.” The quill scrabbled across parchment again. “I’ll make a formal note in your file that you were not aware a scan was being performed.”   
  
Ramrod straight now, Draco’s voice was brittle. “Absolutely do. No one ever advised me there was a medical scan.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Now would not be the time to lose his composure. The more he made of it, the worse it would look to the Wizengamot. “I’ve told you or your peers that losing my magic has made me somewhat clumsy.” He raised his eyebrow, defying her to call him a liar to his face. “It is not something I’m proud of. It’s rather embarrassing actually.”  
  
She sniffed. “I’d say it must be, though perhaps life threatening would be a more accurate assessment. The spell reveals you have bruised ribs and a hairline fracture in your left humerus. Hold out your arm.”  
  
Draco stifled a groan at the information, yet did as commanded. He’d hoped it was only sprained.  
  
Within seconds the pain he’d been suffering vanished.  
  
“I also see swelling tissue in your jaw. It appears to be healing naturally. Care to tell me how you broke your arm and bruised your jaw?”  
  
Draco didn’t like the tone she was taking. “Madame…..” Drawing on his heritage, he attempted a look worthy of his surname. “…..As I have stated, on several occasions, being without my magic has made me less graceful on my feet than I once was. I am confident upon the lifting of the dampening ward – and the return of my wand – I will suffer no further incidents of inelegance.” He tried for his best haughty stare. Based on the look she pinned him with, he suspected he’d failed. Spectacularly.   
  
With another quick wave of her wand toward his torso, and then his jaw, Draco found himself feeling better than he had in a week. Experimentally he worked his jaw, enjoying the twinge-free feeling it had.  
  
He nodded his thanks.  
  
“Shall we continue then?” she asked.  
  
Not only could he recite what she would ask, he could almost predict the order in which she would make her inquiries. The line of questioning went beyond the pale, to the point that he found himself wondering if Rita Skeeter had polyjuiced herself into a medi-witch in an effort to get even more insight into bloody Perfect Potter. Honestly.  
  
How was he getting on with Potter?  
  
How were the Muggle Studies coming?  
  
How did he feel about the Muggle Studies?  
  
How was it living without his wand? Without magic?  
  
How does he treat you?  
  
How often are you warded alone in the house?  
  
Are you there any altercations between you? Verbal? Physical?  
  
Does Mr. Potter have many guests?  
  
Do you?  
  
If they were waiting for him to tell them that Potter had actually fucked his way through almost every debutante in civilized England, then they were sadly mistaken. _Unless, of course, he mused. I could tell them why. Now that would be a story._   
  
Frankly, he was more likely to tell him about his injuries. As if.   
  
His chin went up. He’d rather go back to Azkaban than suffer the public humiliation. _Any_ public humiliation. Telling them about Potter’s dreams would be almost as degrading to him as it would be to Potter. He was nobody’s bottom.   
  
_Not for lack of desire_ …a nasty voice in his head pointed out. Draco felt his own fingernails cutting into his palms as he battled for control. He forced himself to focus on a hairline crack in the plaster on the wall until he was sure his anger was banked.  
  
She shuffled the papers in front of her and Draco glanced down and saw the current edition of Wizard GQ. He cursed himself for not noticing it before. The face was familiar. Potter, of course. Who else?   
  
“Mr. Potter often gets asked about your relationship and why he agreed to take you in,” the witch began. “How does it make you feel to have your personal life discussed in such a public forum?”  
  
If she thought this was a new line of questioning she was misinformed. His eyes flicked to the cover, disdain evident on his face. “As a member of what was once one of the first families of the wizarding world, I was taught from an early age to never read or pay any mind to what was circulated in the media. And if I did, or was ever asked to comment, the family motto was ‘never explain, never complain’.”   
  
_Liar!_ his inner voice screamed. He’d read this article. And every other article that Potter had been featured in over the last – well, truth be told – twelve years. The witch was right. In almost every article since Draco had been placed with Potter, the famous wizard was inevitably asked why he saved ‘Draco Malfoy, son of Voldemort’s right hand man, personal bane of Potter’s existence throughout their first 6 years at Hogwarts’….ad nauseam.  
  
Potter’s answers were sometimes serious, sometimes flip. With each interview Draco read – and there had been hundreds – he was furious at the invasion of what little privacy he had left every time Potter answered. Why didn’t the prat tell them to bugger off?  
  
And why the hell was he sitting here brooding about the git anyway? Did everything in the entire wizarding universe revolve around Harry-sodding-Potter?   
  
“Could we get back to the matter at hand?” he asked. “Are there any changes in the spells? Anything to be concerned about?”  
  
“Nothing other than what we’ve covered, sir,” she responded, her voice cold now too.  
  
He stood and made a move to collect his cloak. “Then we’re finished here?”  
  
“For this month, Mr. Malfoy. Don’t forget to book your next appointment on the way out.”  
  
 _Joy,_ he thought, but the word lay unspoken, like so many others, bitter on his tongue. He nodded briefly and escaped.

 

**Night**  
  
 _Feet flying, clattering loudly against cold flagstones…..down, down, deeper, darker. Crashing through the door…..breath coming in gasps, late, late….Snape will kill me.  
  
“Harry!”   
  
Hermione! Dammit, I don’t have time. I’m late to Potions. Late to Draco.  
  
“Go away, Hermione. I’m looking for Draco,” I call over my shoulder, skidding to a stop just as Snape’s head snaps up from his desk.  
  
“So good of you to join us, Mr. Potter.” He stands, and moves away from his desk, toward me.  
  
Fear, sweat breaking out. But not even Snape is going to get in my way. “Excuse me, sir. Draco – where is Draco? Must see – ”  
  
A dramatic flourish, robes billowing, Snape steps back, bowing deeply, he gestures toward his office.  
  
Nodding, relief rushing through my veins. Draco. I must get to Draco.  
  
Through the door – not even bothering to close it.  
  
He turns, hands full of potion ingredients in meticulously labeled jars, he is beautifully pale, his long hair, curling up and under at his shoulders. Eyes open wide – pupils dark, almost covering those dove grey eyes. His mouth opens in an ‘o’ as he gazes back.   
  
“Draco – ” I groan, need overwhelming me, sending blood crashing through my veins.  
  
Whatever he had in his hands vanishes and he is turning, leaning over Snape’s desk, head turned toward me, eyes beckoning, inviting.  
  
I’m there. Behind him, hands stroking, hungrily pushing up his robes. Like many purebloods, he is naked beneath. Alabaster skin – should be cold – but it is hot to my touch, and touch I do.  
  
Groaning into his back, which is now bare, I lick and tease, unable to get enough. Fingers kneading, mouth ravaging, longing to mark that beautiful body. Mine, mine, mine, screams in my blood.  
  
“Now,” he urges. “Now.”  
  
I stop. But only for a moment. Naked now myself, I cast a lubrication charm.  
  
“Now!” he commands, like he was born to it. Perhaps he was.  
  
Lining up, I thrust.   
  
The heat, the moistness. Draco arches up and back, falling into my awaiting arms, shoulders pushing back into my shoulders, his head falling back and I clasp onto that tender juncture at his neck, teeth and tongue finding salvation in that tangy sweet skin. I reach for his erection, loving the feel of him throbbing in my hand. “Draco,” I beg, not caring that I do.   
  
“Harry – hurry.”  
  
I do. I move in him, around him. Holding him back, loving the feel of his blond locks against my bare skin…   
  
“Hurry,” he urges, voice breaking with emotion. “Hurry – hurry.”  
  
Limbs are tangling, hearts pumping erratically, the pulse in my cock threatening to kill me if I don’t comply. “Draco – ” I whimper and then he is fucking me, dancing on my cock, using my own body against me as he leverages himself on and off. On and off. Killing me.  
  
“DRACO!” I scream, voice hoarse, and I feel tears running down my face as my orgasm jerks out of my body, brutal in its intensity._  
  
  
  
Draco awakened, calling his own name, tears streaming down his face. Shuddering, he recalls every single millisecond of the dream. It never ceases to astonish him that while in the dream he _is_ Harry Potter. “It’s like fucking myself,” he muttered. “And what is with the hair, Potter? Can’t you keep your fantasies straight? You want me the way I look now, but wearing school robes. A therapist would have a field day with you.”   
  
  
  
**88 days**   
  
Potter had avoided his eyes even more so than usual as he’d slid his wand into his dress robes. “I’ll be out for a bit. Friend of Seamus’. Deanna. Nice girl.”  
  
Draco bit his tongue.   
  
“I won’t be too late. Do you need anything before I go?”  
  
Draco held onto his silence, forcing Potter to actually look at him. This – this outrageous subterfuge made Draco angrier than anything else he’d ever endured during his captivity, here or in Azkaban. “No, Potter. I require nothing.” _that you are willing to offer me,_ remained unspoken.  
  
10pm passed into 11pm. Draco forced down a sigh of relief. If his tormentor were coming, he’d have been here by now.   
  
Collecting a glass of brandy he moved toward the flight of stairs that would lead to his bedroom, shoulders sagging in relief.  
  
Draco had barely snicked his bedroom door closed before he began slipping off his boots and jeans. The rest of his clothes quickly followed. He glanced around his room, satisfied everything was in order. Moving to his desk, he retrieved the salt and a handful of items from his bottom desk drawer. He collected several cushions from his bed, and settled everything at his feet.  
  
Draco began the cast, salt spilling effortlessly from his outstretched palm as he murmured words more ancient than time, turning clockwise into a fluid circle.  
  
Once ensconced in the sanctuary of the circle, he took in a deep breath. Only here, thus protected, could he be real. Be himself.  
  
A few more phrases and Draco grinned, gratified as the iridescent dome coalesced, engulfing, protecting, freeing him.  
  
As he’d done almost every night since he’d procured “Ancient Earth Magic” Draco finished his incantations and settled himself on the plump pillows he’d brought inside with him. He was naked, on his knees, bum resting on the soles of his feet.  
  
The dome of protection – a more advanced circle – kept the Wizengamot and Potter from sensing his magic rising. Magic that was supposed to remain untouched, unused for these last years of his sentence.  
  
He began breathing deep, calling upon his inherent magic. Like banked energy, it coiled inside him, deep in his gut, and with his coaxing, it began to unfurl, moving until his entire body tingled with the sensation. Surrounding him, his silver and white magic moved to interact with that of the dome.   
  
Magic coursing through him was a sensation he’d taken for granted his entire life. Until Azkaban. Never again.  
  
First order of business: Draco eyed the book, his hairbrush and the candle. He’d spent a good portion of the day deciding what he would work on tonight.  
  
Beginning with a charm he’d perfected last week, Draco focused his magic toward the book. “Loquorsponte, ” he breathed, waving his hand at the book. After a moment, it opened and began reading itself, the voice of the author, dusty, disused. Huffing slightly from the exertion, Draco sat back satisfied.   
  
As the book droned on, Draco rested. The next one was harder; something he hadn’t quite managed yet.   
  
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the hairbrush, picturing something completely different in his mind’s eye.   
  
Time had no meaning as he focused, became the object he desired to see, feeling its properties: feathery down, tiny heartbeat, color of daffodils. His breathing grew labored, and peripherally he was aware of the sweat now coating his body.  
  
A soft chirping filled his ears, and he blinked back tears as he reached down for the downy chick in front of him. “Merlin,” he whispered in awe. As he scooped up the tiny creature from where before his hairbrush had been, his body quaked and his hand shook – from exertion and wonder. “Well, hello there.” Draco wiped at the sweat stinging his already watering eyes.   
  
Suddenly he flashed back to third year when he and Greg had learned the same transfiguration – with wands, of course. They’d joked about the chick, threatening to wring its neck. Draco, fingering the quivering heartbeat of the tiny beast in his hands, he remembered how he’d blustered, saying he didn’t want to have to ask his mother for a new hairbrush because he’d broken the one he had.   
  
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He nuzzled it to his cheek, drinking in the warmth, as the frail chick shivered in his hands.  
  
Draco cuddled the little chick for some moments, giving himself time to rest. Setting the small bundle of fluff carefully on the rug, he pushed down a pang of regret, before he returned it to its original form.  
  
With almost lazy ease, he transfigured the candle. It had been one of his first successful transfigurations without his wand.  
  
Resting on his feet again, he allowed himself to just enjoy the feel of his magic pooling in his body. He played with it, undulating it through his limbs, up over his chest, up to the top of his head, until he felt it merging with the energy of the dome, merging and strengthening with each volley. It was sublime, and Draco felt his body begin to respond, the magic more potent than a lover’s caress.   
  
Until he’d lost his ability to use his magic, Draco’d never realized how much his libido was tied to it. But now, now, with the power surging through him, emotion choked in his throat and he reached for his cock.   
  
In the years since the binding and dampening spells had been placed on him, Draco couldn’t find it within himself to enjoy his own touch. But in the circle….that was an entirely different matter.   
  
Arching his back, Draco ran his fingers lightly down the burgeoning erection, teasing himself into readiness. He groaned, and closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling.  
  
Snagging the pot of warming lubricant where the candle had once been, he coated his fingers, and then clasping himself with a torturously light touch, he pumped lazily, wanting the pleasure to last as long as possible. His head fell back, and he imagined a dark-headed lover biting into his exposed neck. Another groan spilled from his throat, and he quickly clamped down on the base of his cock, not wanting to it to be over yet. Not yet.  
  
“Fucking Potter,” he murmured, easing himself back from the brink. Shifting up to his knees, Draco reached again for the lube. Hooking his fingers into the tiny pot, this time he reached behind himself with the balm, he teased the pucker of flesh – flesh that had never known another’s hand, let alone been breached. At least not in real life.   
  
Every night he watched as Harry Potter took him in his dreams – sometimes rough, almost always fast – and always, always, Potter prepared him with a spell. For someone who was so steadfastly straight by day, Potter knew an amazing variety of lubrication and stretching charms.   
  
Carefully he stretched himself with his fingers and groaned. “Oh no you won’t, Potter. There will no stretching spells when I finally land you.” The feeling was delicious; he wanted more. “You’ll do it by hand, no magic allowed.”   
  
He began pumping, harder now, release coming fast.  
  
His orgasm hit hard and he cried out as his body quaked. As his own fingers slid from his body he felt empty, aching with the need to feel Potter inside him. He’d learned to put up with the need and the frustration he felt knowing that Potter patently ignored what was going on in his own head.   
  
After long moments of recovery, Draco dropped to the cushions and he began the counter clockwise movement. He was slower in his arc than when he’d cast. He whispered his thanks to the elements. “This circle is now closed. As I will it, so mote it be.”

**Night**   
  
_Burning spangles….eyes watering….excruciating pain….screams. Flailing, desperate to block out the light….so painful.  
  
“Now, now, Harry. Struggling won’t help you at all.”   
  
A quick flick of a wand barely seen through eyes tearing beyond belief. My eyelids – can’t close them. Can’t blink.  
  
“That’s right, dear boy. Your corneas – I’ll burn them right out. No magic on earth will save them.”  
  
Dazzling brightness, tears running freely.  
  
“A muggle phrase I’m sure you’re familiar with, Harry Potter, since you’re a half-blood just as I am. ‘The eyes are the mirrors of your soul,’ Harry Potter. The mirrors of your soul.” Voldemort laughed, a mad cackling laugh. “And I’ll burn it out of you, Harry Potter – I’ll destroy your sight so completely that you’ll wish I’d have killed you.” _  
  
  
Draco sat straight up, clawing at his eyes. His chest shaking from the pain; his breath ragged, coming too quickly. The dreams where he – as Potter – faced Voldemort were the absolute worst. Fighting for control, he wondered how Potter survived all those years. “No wonder you’ve gone off your nut and turned into Gilderoy Lockhart.” Draco soothed his hand over his still aching eyes. “Who could blame you?”  
  
  
  
 **83 days**  
  
The fireplace blazed green, and with suddenly nerveless fingers, Draco dropped the teacup, bone china shattering against the hardwoods. Potter wasn’t due home for hours yet.  
  
“Hello, Malfoy. Miss me?”  
  
Draco steeled himself, refusing to react.   
  
Weasley moved toward him, grinning, stumbling a bit on the edge of the rug. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Death Eater?”  
  
Taking in the slight misstep, Draco knew the Weasel had been drinking – again. It was more and more common as the months wore on.   
  
Draco’s silence seemed to infuriate the dangerous wizard, as he knew it would.   
  
“Nothing to say, you bloody traitor?” Weasley said, his face contorted to something almost unrecognizable.   
  
If the arsehole thought Draco would ever beg, he had another thing coming.  
  
Weasley’s advance continued and Draco cursed himself for scrambling out of the chair, trying to find even a modicum of safety. He knew it would be short-lived, at best.  
  
Within moments, Weasley had him (once again) pressed up against a wall, wand to the jugular. The corner of a picture frame dug into his shoulder blade, and Draco could smell the fire whiskey on Weasley’s fetid breath. Merlin but the bastard was pathetic.  
  
Advisable or not, Draco couldn’t keep quiet. “You get off on this, don’t you, Weasel?” Draco knew from past experience that the sooner it got started the sooner it would be over. In some strange way, the first blow would be better than the endless waiting he seemed to do in between ‘visits’.  
  
“Shut it, Malfoy.” Weasley’s foul breath was almost intolerably close. His robes stank of cigarette smoke.  
  
“As articulate as ever, I see.”  
  
When Weasley didn’t respond, Draco recklessly pushed on. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it. You do get off on this! Is this just the first round? This get you wound up and then you’re off home to fuck the missus, is it? Oh, I forgot – there is no little missus is there? Why is that? Is it possible you’re hung up on the wizarding poster boy after all? There was talk at school, you know.”  
  
“I’ll leave that sort of depravity for your kind.”  
  
Draco stilled. _The Weasel couldn’t know about the dreams, could he?_ “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about, Weaselby,” he bluffed. “What’s the matter? Your perverted brothers finally cut you out of the loop?”   
  
Weasley’s face worked silently for a moment. Finally he managed, “You’re pretty brazen for a man with a wand stuck in his throat.”   
  
“And you’re so brave, aren’t you? Picking on a defenseless wizard to bully. One day I’ll kill you for this – and for all the other times as well.” Draco knew it was all talk, hoping to precipitate the first crunch of flesh against flesh. Get it over with, Weasel, he silently begged.   
  
“The fuck you say!” Weasley roared. “As if you’d ever have the chance. There are a fair few of us who weren’t as kindly disposed to your cause as Harry was. One ill-placed curse, or your wand swung wildly and you’ll be in custody before you can pull your next breath.” He dug the wand in. “Mark my words, Malfoy: There will be no escaping Azkaban a second time. Magic or not, you’re finished. No one will ever suffer _your_ brutality again.”  
  
 _The pot and the kettle_ , Draco thought, fury roiling in his body, bouncing his magic back and forth. He commanded himself to calm down, knowing if he wasn’t careful his rage would boil over and spoil all his plans. Anger was bitter on his tongue, and he longed to be able to unleash his fury in all of its forms. But the Weasel would love nothing better than to catch him out and turn him in to the Wizengamot. And Draco would be damned if he’d give him the satisfaction.  
  
“You’re pathetic, Weasley. You should be _grateful_ your mother isn’t alive to see you now.” Draco braced, knowing what was coming. “Thank the stars The Dark Lord finished her off – ”   
  
The relief and the pain of the first blow, fist connecting to cheekbone, gave him something to concentrate on. As the blows rocked his physical body, Draco withdrew inside, deep into his core, where the Weasel couldn’t touch him. Occasionally, like tonight, Draco felt he was up in the corner of the room, near the ceiling – watching dispassionately as his body was beaten and bloodied.   
  
The Weasel was getting more vicious, Draco noticed. And, though Draco was loathe to admit it, smarter. His punches and kicks were being aimed where they wouldn’t be visible to the casual observer. Gut, ribs, kidneys, crotch. Was this what they taught Weasley in auror training? Never leave a mark.   
  
From Draco’s vantage point of the ceiling, he noted that so far, there was only one wound that would show – the inevitable first punch landed to his face. What was it the bastard always said?  
  
“I’m going to wipe that self-satisfied smug look off your face once and for all, Malfoy.”  
  
But he never did. And he never would.

  
**72 days**  
  
Harry checked his hair in the mirror – the floo hadn’t done it too much harm. Looking past his reflection, the atrium caught his eye. _What the hell?_  
  
Turning he peered toward it, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. Checking out the front window, he confirmed that the sun was shining on this late May afternoon.  
  
‘How peculiar.” He wondered if the Fair Weather Charm he had over his back garden was malfunctioning, but frankly, didn’t see how that was possible.  
  
“Dobby!” he called, still staring disbelievingly at the destructive storm, lashing at the atrium.  
  
CRACK “Yes – Mr. Harry Potter, sir? You be needing something?” Dobby’s eyes were bright, eager.  
  
“Yes, Dobby,” Harry answered distractedly. “Any idea why it’s blowing a nor’easter in the back garden?”  
  
When Dobby didn’t immediately answer, Harry snapped his gaze down sharply. “Dobby? What is going on?”  
  
Dobby hung his head. “It’s Master Malfoy, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. He’s unhappy.”  
  
Harry started and then stared down at the house-elf. “I beg your pardon?” Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. “How? What?” He stopped, reaching up to grasp the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “What on earth is Mast- Malfoy unhappy about?”  
  
“Please sir.” Dobby wrung his hands. “Begging your pardon, sir, but, Dobby’s not at liberty to say, sir.”  
  
Pain suddenly lit up behind Harry’s eyes and he roared, “You’re what?! ‘Not allowed to say’?! Dobby – you – ”  
  
“Potter!” An imperious voice rang from the direction of the atrium. “Don’t take it out on Dobby. I asked him to keep his mouth shut.” Malfoy stalked into the room. He glared at the house-elf. “Apparently I wasn’t specific enough in my request.”  
  
Harry gaped, first at Dobby, then to Malfoy. Then back to Dobby. Had he lost complete control of his household? Malfoy had somehow persuaded Dobby to keep his confidences? And it appeared he’d also been able to sway the Fair Weather Charm, as well. Seeing a smudge on Malfoy’s cheek, he squinted. What was that? Dirt? He almost laughed aloud at the thought. Dirt? On Malfoy? Not likely.  
  
Malfoy saw his gaze. “I – wasn’t watching where I was going and ran into the door a couple of days ago.”  
  
Oh. Malfoy had been clumsy since he’d lost the use of his magic. “Shall I…?” He motioned toward the cheek. It wasn’t that uncommon for him to spell-well Malfoy’s bumps and bruises.   
  
“No. It’s fine.” Malfoy’s body was drawn up tight. Harry thought for a moment he might be shaking with a barely controlled rage.  
  
Forcing himself back to the issues at hand, he began again. “Right then. Could you begin by explaining to me why there is a storm in the back garden?”   
  
Malfoy shrugged and Harry fought down the urge to strangle him. Why was it that any interactions beyond ‘Hello, Malfoy, Good-bye, Malfoy’ he had with the blond wizard always caused his wand hand to twitch? “Surely you can do better than that. How is it that there is a perfectly good sunny day out front, and a raging hurricane out back?”  
  
Silence stretched between them. Just when Harry thought Malfoy wasn’t going to answer him at all, he spoke, his voice sounding truculent, like a 10 year old. “I wanted it to rain.”  
  
“You wanted it to rain?” Harry asked, sounding like a bloody parrot.   
  
Malfoy nodded.  
  
Once again Harry imagined he could see Malfoy with his low lip stuck out in a pout. He was struck by how infuriatingly young the other man seemed. Strike that. Malfoy was just infuriating. “And what?” Harry glared at Malfoy as the silence continued. “As you well know, I have a Fair Weather Charm on the back garden. How did you change it? You know you’re not supposed – ”  
  
“ – I didn’t _do_ anything!”  
  
“Then how?” Harry was at a loss.   
  
“The binding spell, I think,” Malfoy said.   
  
His voice had been low enough Harry had to strain to hear him. “Sorry, what?”  
  
“The binding spell, I suspect.” Malfoy repeated, shifting from foot to foot.   
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “The binding spell?” He seemed destined to repeat _everything_ Malfoy said. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath before continuing. “What makes you think that?”  
  
“I’ve done some research on binding spells,” Malfoy returned. His voice was flat, his cadence quicker than normal. “While we were still at Hogwarts,” Malfoy continued. “I wanted to know what it was going to mean to be bound. It is blood magic, you know.”   
  
Brushing aside his explanation, Harry pushed on. “Yes, yes – but so, you just wished it would rain, and it did?” The implications were frightening really.  
  
Malfoy nodded.  
  
Harry glanced back toward the atrium again, the rain sheeting down hard enough to rattle glass. “Uhm – did you wish for ‘rain’ or a monsoon?” Glancing up sharply, he saw Malfoy struggle to keep his mouth turned down in a frown. But he obviously couldn’t keep the amusement out of his eyes.   
  
“Well…” Draco conceded.  
  
Trying to catch Malfoy’ s eye, Harry grinned and made a mental note to ask Hermione about the binding spell and whether or not Malfoy should be able to change his magic. Speaking of – he frowned again as his eyes shifted between Malfoy and Dobby. “And what is this Dobby is saying about you being unhappy?” _and his keeping your confidences_ went unsaid.  
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Leave it out, Potter. How happy would you be if you were under house arrest? Trapped between this house and the Ministry.”  
  
Planting his feet further apart, Harry crossed his arms in front of him, suddenly sick to death of Malfoy’s pity party. “You’re hardly a prisoner. There are other places you could go besides this house and work. That was the whole point of the binding spell, wasn’t it? So that you could have some measure of freedom?”  
  
“It’s a leash! I can’t get more than 100 feet away from you and you know it,” Malfoy responded, his eyes no longer meeting Harry’s. “Frankly, I’d just as soon stay where you can’t track my every moment, which means here or the Ministry.”  
  
Harry shook his head. It was true, he supposed. Wards had been placed around his house and in the Ministry of Magic to give Malfoy freedom of movement while on those properties, with specific incantations to prevent him from performing magic – which was another reason it was odd that Malfoy could manipulate the Fair Weather Charm.   
  
Sighing, Harry waited until the other wizard looked up from the patch of Oriental rug he’d been so studiously monitoring. “There’s a Muggle saying, ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face.’ If you haven’t run across it in your Muggle Studies yet, you might look it up. It doesn’t have to be like this.”   
  
A sudden clap of thunder startled Harry, and he eyed Malfoy. Pushing on, he continued. “Listen – you could go places, hit the shoppes when I go, go round the pub with me occasionally. I’m sure Ron and Hermione wouldn’t mind – ”  
  
A harsh sound escaped Malfoy’s lips. “Don’t.” Malfoy pressed his lips together so tightly they almost disappeared.   
  
Glancing down, Harry saw that Dobby had teared up, and was shaking his head, as if trying to warn him about something.  
  
Malfoy’s own eyes were bright and somewhat wild and Harry once again found himself wondering just what the hell was going on. There was an odd charge in the air, like just before a summer storm. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.   
  
He took a quick glance outside to where the rain continued beating down the roses Malfoy had been raising almost since he’d moved in. The camellias looked beyond repair. This really was outrageous.  
  
Drawing his wand, he performed a quick swish, and the storm abated. “That’s just about enough of that, I think,” he murmured, turning his attention back to the wizard and elf in front of him. “As it is, you’ve damaged your garden.”   
  
“ _Your_ garden, don’t you mean?” Malfoy volleyed back. “Never mind. Leave it. I’ll deal with it later.” Without another word, he stalked away.   
  
Harry watched the too straight line of Malfoy’s back in retreat. Malfoy was barefoot, but somehow managed to make his footfall loud, angry sounding. Harry wondered that he wouldn’t have bruised heels in the morning.  
  
Before Harry turned to have a word with Dobby, he heard the sound of the house-elf taking his leave as well.  
  
“Someone is going to explain this to me,” he muttered under his breath to the empty room. But he suspected an explanation would be a long time coming.   
  
Glancing down at his watch he realized this little tête-à-tête had put him behind schedule for his date with Miranda. Bemused, he moved quickly toward the stairs. With any luck he’d only be a few minutes late picking her up.

 

  
**Night**  
  
 _The dust….spiders….cramped…….Hedwig squawking…..fluttering, demanding to be released. Pouring cold soup bits into her cage. “I’m sorry, girl. It’s all we’ve got.”  
  
Uncle Vernon, reaching for his belt: “Why I oughtta – “   
  
Cringing, I pray it’s only the strap._  
  
Draco sat up groggily, nursing his arm – the pain sharp from Weasley’s latest visit a few hours ago. He struggled to clear his head, focus on the dream. Potter’s Muggle relatives were the living end. He’d heard rumors, of course, back in school. The dreams – even if they were a bit fantastical, as dreams often are – seemed to back up what he’d heard.   
  
Locked in a cupboard, fed only lettuce, celery and tins of cold soup…it would appear Potter had suffered mightily at the hands of his nasty relatives. Draco’s own childhood had been no bed of roses, but neither he nor his owl had ever wanted for food.  
  
Draco slowly lay back down, unsuccessfully trying to find a position where nothing hurt. It was getting harder and harder to do, these days.   
  
  
**65 days**  
  
The tiredness came more often now and lasted longer. Muscle and abused flesh ached from the night before. It would seem the bastard had broken another bone in his arm. The pain was piercing. So excruciating that Draco could only compare it to ‘Crucio’.   
  
He thought about asking Dobby to heal him, but he couldn’t take the chance the magical signature would appear on his next medical scan. _Never complain, never explain_ rattled around in his weary mind.   
  
Blurrily, he eyed the clock on his nightstand and saw it was after 8am. He wasn’t going to make it to work today. Let them send the aurors, if they must. He just couldn’t do it. Sleep came quickly and the day crept on.  
  
Draco started awake suddenly as the light came on and he struggled to turn away, but not quickly enough to not see Hermione Granger turn pale beneath her angry expression.   
  
“If you wouldn’t mind, Granger,” he managed politely, his lungs hurting. “I have a bit of a headache.”  
  
“What on earth did he do to you?” she breathed, pulling off her traveling robes and tossing them over the chair by the door, floo powder dusting the recently swept floor.   
  
“It’s nothing.” Draco pulled the covers up awkwardly with his left hand, trying to hide the twisted discoloration of the right. “I fell down the stairs, that’s all.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. The last thing Weasley had done before leaving was wand him up the stairs, and then kick him down – two long, twisting flights. Another broken wrist.  
  
“With some help, I’d say.” Hermione came round the edge of the bed and sat down next to him, the heat of her hip seeping through the form fitting short skirt that she wore and the thin cotton sheet that separated them.  
  
She smelled like spring.   
  
This was the first intimate contact he’d had in months, if not years – with anyone.   
  
“I had coffee with Ron this morning,” she began, without preamble. “And he said that he’d ‘popped ‘round to see Malfoy after the pub last night.’ You didn’t show up at the Ministry, I was worried.”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrow – half challenge, half question.  
  
“I know how he can be when he’s been drinking.” She reached over and touched his face lightly, her fingers skating across bruised flesh. “Why didn’t you see to this yourself?”  
  
“How?” he snapped, anger overwhelming his polite veneer. “Potter didn’t knock round this morning and I could hardly have magicked it, now could I?”  
  
Hermione looked chagrined, and not a little embarrassed. “You’re going to have to tell him.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like it’s not bloody obvious, now, is it?’  
  
“Not the injury...” She looked tired. “...about Ron.” She cupped his face and he could feel the warming power of her magic flood him.   
  
After all the times that he insulted her, all of the times that her hands had bruised him and she would now touch him with such kindness. He didn’t understand her at all. But then again, he had never tried.   
  
With almost clinical precision, she pushed the sheet that he’d been clinging to aside. She didn’t say a word, though her thoughts were clearly reflected in the horror of her eyes, as she laid her hands, palm down, across his chest, then slid them lower, across his mottled abdomen.  
  
”I don’t think your ribs are damaged too badly. You can breathe okay? No blood?”  
  
He shook his head negatively. “No blood.”  
  
“I’ll do what I can,” she said, encircling his painful wrist with fingers that were as hot as molten steel. “But you’ll need to have this seen by a medi-wizard as soon as Harry gets back. And regardless of what you say, I’m worried about your ribs.”  
  
He didn’t bother to respond, entranced by her pulse that fluttered beneath her pale skin, the brightness of her eyes, the blood that seemed to tinge her features that had grown somehow more boyish, yet more beautiful as the years passed.  
  
“Draco – I’m going to try to heal some of this damage – I’m going to use my hands and my wand, together. Okay?”   
  
So, he wasn’t the only one working on working magic in non-traditional manners. He wasn’t surprised really. She really always had been his intellectual equal.   
  
As her magic heated her skin, warming him through its transference, he could smell her. A faint wisp of perspiration tickled his senses, atop something more primal, more alluring.   
  
She shifted without warning and reached around him, pulling him towards her. Her hair fell across his face like gossamer and he felt his own cheeks burn as his lips brushed her neck. They both froze.   
  
Hermione coughed delicately, before placing one hand on his back, her other hand holding her wand, incantations murmured so softly he had to strain to hear her.   
  
Sandwiched between her arms and breasts, Draco found himself with an eye full of flesh held secure by lace so delicate that it could have been spun by the tiniest of faeries. Head practically swimming, he wondered what she’d do if he leaned forward, burying his face into the gaping V of her blouse.  
  
He also wondered what she’d do if she realized he was half hard.  
  
“Oh, Malfoy,” she murmured and, as if having read his traitorous thoughts, her own lips ghosted his ear –or at least he thought they did. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be too kind to me, Granger,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her hair cautiously, wrapping the strands tightly around his errant fingers. “You wouldn’t want the big bad Death Eater to get the wrong idea.”  
  
“And what idea might that be?” she asked, this time her hand lingered on his shoulder in a definite caress.  
  
He shuddered with the intimacy of it.  
  
She shifted even closer, canting her hips, causing the too short skirt to rise dangerously up one thigh.  
  
She had on stockings – the Mudblood actually had on garters—the lace just visible beneath the hem of her skirt.  
  
His fingers itched to touch her. She was so close. Surely he could make it seem like an accident. If only—  
  
“Malfoy?” Definitely a caress that time.   
  
Blood rushed south, betraying him further still, surprising him even more.  
  
One more move, and his fingers found flesh. This time he moaned out loud.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
He closed his eyes –he had to, otherwise he’d never be able to say what had to be said.   
  
“You know, Granger, I’ve never done a pity fuck in my entire life, and I don’t think that now’s the time to start.” He wanted to cry.  
  
Her breathing hitched sharply, as if she’d been the one slapped. “I see,” she said, pulling away sharply. “I’ll go.”  
  
He opened his eyes, only to see that his competent and – he could admit to himself, now – gorgeous nurse, had been replaced by the awkward, miserable girl that he hadn’t seen since the beginning of their first year.   
  
“Granger?”  
  
“You needn’t tell me twice...” She straightened her skirt, flicking her fingers nervously at a piece of imaginary lint. “...Please don’t tell Harry.”  
  
Something clicked into place. “Gran –Hermione?” he managed, the name foreign on his tongue.  
  
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. “I can assure you—“  
  
“Did you—?” He wasn’t sure he knew how to ask. “Did you –I mean, did you want to? With me?” He hated how desperate he sounded.   
  
She opened her mouth and then closed it. Taking a deep breath, she sat on the bed, her hands folded primly in her lap. “When you touched me, I thought—” She shook her head and, again, made a move to go. “Never mind what I thought.”  
  
Realization stuck. “You thought that I meant you when I said ‘pity fuck’?” Draco wanted to laugh. “I meant me. I’ve never accepted a pity fuck in my life.” He thought he really was going to cry. “You thought that I meant you?” His face flamed as he realized he was repeating himself like an idiot.  
  
She nodded, her cheeks ablaze.  
  
“You’d do this, then?” he asked, dumbfounded. “With me?”  
  
Taking her awkward silence as invitation, he slid his hands beneath the satin lining of her skirt, coming to rest on the lace of the silk stocking.   
  
Eyes never leaving her face, he stroked his thumb tentatively, only to have her thighs part in yet another silent invitation – the heat of her licked at his fingertips, stoking his own rising passion.  
  
“Why in Merlin’s name would you think I meant you?” he managed, his breathing ragged. “Surely you’ve had dozens of lovers.”  
  
“Head girl at Hogwarts,” she reminded, her voice surprisingly bitter, shaking with could easily be embarrassment or desire. “The Muggle-born who supposedly toyed with the Boy Who Lived and who broke Victor Krum’s heart in the process. Property of one Ronald Weasley, at least in the minds of every wizard – or Muggle, for that matter—who has ever shown any bit of interest. Other than Ronald Weasley, of course, who only looks at me if someone else does. You see, Malfoy, between Rita Skeeter and Ron, I’m not exactly a hot market commodity.” Her intonation told Draco this was something she’d thought about quite a bit.  
  
“Draco,” he murmured, enjoying the feel of her skin beneath his.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You called me ‘Draco’ before,” he reminded. “Would you again?”  
  
She licked her lips hesitantly.   
  
“It’s not about pity?’ he asked, moving so that she could lay down next to him and he could guide her head gently to the sateen covered pillows that, until this moment, had known no weight other than his own.  
  
“Me? Pitying you?” She laughed, with only the slightest tinge of nervousness beneath the merry peal. “Curious? Always,” she admitted, reaching out to push his overly long bangs behind one ear. “But pity? Never.”  
  
“But I’ve been such an ass.”  
  
“True,” she retorted, leaning to steal a cautious kiss, then licking her lips afterwards, as if savoring the taste. “But you were bloody gorgeous.” Her gaze flicked over his face warmly, coming to rest on his slightly bruised lips. “You still are.”  
  
Draco rolled over until he had her pinned beneath him, tasting her lips, and then taking her mouth in a proper kiss. It felt so good. It’d been so long since he’d touched anyone in this way.  
  
The epithets from his youth disintegrated as their tongues met for the first time and he wondered, just how much he’d missed, being Lucius’ son.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stepping out of the floo, Harry turned in time to catch Hermione stopping abruptly at the landing.   
  
“What are you doing here?” she asked.   
  
Harry found his mouth hanging open, surprised to find her there, taken aback at her impertinence. It was his house, after all.  
  
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed on. "Ron has been hurting Draco!"   
  
Finally finding his tongue, Harry bit it as he eyed Hermione, taking in her mussed skirt, fuller than normal lips, and pink-stained cheeks. He felt something inside him hitch with anger. "Draco, is it? To answer your question, my bondmate – ” He broke off, heat suffusing his face.   
  
Had he actually said that? Bondmate? He must have gone mad. “ – Malfoy isn’t at work. Since I can’t feel him, I figured he must be here.” He drew a long steadying breath as he tried to ignore Hermione’s widened eyes at his slip of the tongue.  
  
She started to speak, but he cut her off. “And what are _you_ doing in my house in the middle of the day?"   
  
Hermione flushed an even deeper shade of red, and then moved down the stairs, dropping her cloak on the sofa before facing Harry, hands on hips. "I'm serious, Harry. He was in need of a healer when I arrived. How many times in the last year have you had to heal _Malfoy_?"  
  
Harry noticed she had neither risen to challenge of calling Malfoy by his given name, nor explained her presence there. He fought down a wave of anger, reminding himself Hermione was one of his closest friends. Returning to the question she’d just asked, he responded, "A dozen or so. He said he was clumsy."   
  
“Clumsy?” Hermione parroted in disbelief. Quickly she recounted for him how Ron had been bragging about paying Malfoy a visit last evening. “Where were you?” Her tone left no question as where she was assigning at least part of the blame.  
  
“I was out!” he responded, hating the defensive tone in his voice. “Listen – I can’t be with Malfoy twenty-four hours a day, can I?”  
  
“How many hours a day do you spend with him? You’re supposed to be his jailor, yes. But also his guardian. He has no magic! He can’t defend himself.”  
  
“Against what?” Harry’s anger flared. “This is ridiculous! Listen – ” He waved his hand at her disheveled appearance. “No offense, but I’m not so sure you’re being objective about this.”  
  
Her inarticulate sound of disbelief made Harry speak faster. “Malfoy said his not having his magic made him a klutz. I mean - he's not like you or me. He's always had magic. You know it changes the way you move through the world."  
  
She just shook her head, her fists balling at her side. "Honestly, Harry. I thought you of all people would recognize abuse when you saw it."  
  
"Bollocks! Ron just has some anger left over from all the schoolboy taunts Malfoy ladled on him at Hogwarts. I don’t think he is actually beating the shit out of Draco Malfoy."  
  
Hermione drew herself up to her full height, eyes flashing. "School was over four years ago.” Her voice was cold as she continued, “I never thought I’d see the day that Harry Potter would turn a blind eye to what is going on in his own home. Ron is abusing Draco. And you are allowing it.”   
  
"I think you're over reacting.”   
  
Hermione arched an eyebrow, her manner frostier by the moment. “Really? How do you explain the fact that Ron was boasting about being here last night? How do you explain that Draco was unable to get to work today because his ribs were cracked? And just how do you explain that I just had to quick-set Draco’s wrist?”  
  
“’Quick-set his wrist’? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Harry couldn’t help himself from the dig. He turned away, angry with himself for caring who Malfoy fucked.   
  
Silence hung for a moment while they both struggled to control their tempers.   
  
“I’m not going to apologize or explain to you what went on between me and Draco,” Hermione said. Her next words were pitched dangerously low. “I am warning you – do something about this, or I will go to the Wizengamot. Draco is in your custody. You _are_ responsible for him.”  
  
Suddenly exhausted, Harry sank onto the sofa and hazarded a glance at Hermione. "Listen - Ron hasn't been here every time Malfoy comes up hurt."  
  
"Really? You know that for sure?"  
  
"Of course, I know that!"   
  
“Did you know he was here last night?”  
  
Harry groaned inwardly. No. He hadn’t.  
  
"Have you checked your floo records to see if he is coming in when you're not here?"  
  
"My what?"  
  
"Honestly!" Hermione reached over and withdrew her wand from her cloak and cast a quick spell.   
  
Harry stared dumbfounded as a log appeared and mistily hung in mid-air. Another quick flick of her wrist, and a parchment and quill appeared and began transcribing. Harry felt apprehension creeping up his spine as he saw Ron's name come up over and over. Even at first glance, it was more times than he recalled his friend being there.  
  
By the time the parchment was completed and drying, Harry’s head hung low, conceding Hermione's point.  
  
"Why didn't he say anything?"   
  
"Pride, I suspect," Hermione answered briskly. "Did you tell anyone that the Dursleys were abusing you?"  
  
Harry shook his head, mute.  
  
“I thought not.”   
  
Hermione settled down beside Harry on the sofa, and he caught the unmistakable scent of sex on her. Pushing another inexplicable wave of fury aside, he tried to focus on what she was saying.  
  
“After I saw him going into the infirmary a couple of weeks ago, I did some quick checking. Draco has been in there a few times. People are starting to question what is going on. You need to get a handle on this.”  
  
“Like you’ve just gotten a handle on it?” he shot back.  
  
“Harry James Potter –“ Hermione’s eyes snapped, and her hands clenched at her sides.   
  
Harry had the grace to blanch. “Come on, Hermione –“  
  
“No! You listen: I told you I’m not going to explain my actions to you and I’m not. But I think you’d best take a look at your own behavior. Not to mention the way you’re reacting to mine. I think you’re jealous.”  
  
“What?!” Harry stood abruptly. “You’ve got to be joking! And what are you talking about, ‘my behavior’?”  
  
She was scrutinizing him, a speculative gleam in her eye. “You seem very jealous. You’ve never shown even a passing interest in me. So I can only assume it’s Malfoy you’re interested in.”   
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
“I think I’ve said it, actually.” She stood, smoothing down her blouse, and pulling on her robe. “He won’t belong to you forever. If there is something you want, perhaps you’d better do something about it before he’s gone.”  
  
She flooed away before he could respond. He stood there for a long time shaking his head in disbelief.

 

**63 days**  
  
Harry hadn’t slowed down in the last four and a half years. He stared unseeingly out into the back garden. The flowers had come back nicely from the monsoon Malfoy had unleashed on them at the end of May. He tried to remember back to before – before Malfoy moved in, before he’d embraced the title of The Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelor – but he found that he couldn’t. Glancing down at his manicured hands, Harry ran his hands over the expensive cloth of his robes. When had this happened? When had he become the thing he swore he’d never be?  
  
Sighing, he moved restlessly around the atrium.   
  
Over the last couple of days, Harry had turned down multiple invitations. Instead he spent his time analyzing the floo records, looking for discernible patterns as to the timing of Ron’s visits, and wracking his brain to try and place the times he’d had to heal Malfoy.   
  
During meals he saw Malfoy giving him wondering looks, but he never questioned Harry’s sudden departure from his normal socializing.   
  
Harry found himself watching Malfoy in turn. Hermione had been correct: the man he was now was not the boy from school. Looks as well as temperament had changed.   
  
Malfoy had always been the taller of the two of them. Always thin, now his frame was almost spare. Yet somehow he managed to radiate strength. His forearms were long and leanly muscled, like a swimmer’s – or a runner’s. And his blond hair was longer than Harry could ever remember it being. Strange that it didn’t make him look more like Lucius. Malfoy’s hair had more body, more substance than his father’s ever had. In fact, it reminded Harry of Narcissa’s hair – the once or twice he’d ever seen it loose. Like his mother’s, Draco’s hair threatened to curl under at the ends. Harry found his fingers itching to run through the silky tresses.  
  
Every night, the dreams came. Intermixed with his nightmares of the war and loss, Harry admitted he found it a relief when sleep placed him in Malfoy’s arms. For the first time, he examined the dreams in the harsh morning light where it was impossible to hide from the truth Hermione had forced upon him.   
  
These days, Malfoy was always polite – sometimes painfully so. Harry wondered at the shift he was seeing in the other wizard. As the days passed, Malfoy grew more guarded, more introspective, and Harry wondered what was causing it. Was it his presence that was making Malfoy jumpy? Or was it the growing probability that he was expecting Ron? After checking the floo records, Harry could see that the visits were coming more frequently now.  
  
Harry found himself maddeningly on edge each evening as well, anxiously watching the fireplace for an uninvited guest.  
  
Whenever Harry thought about confronting Ron, he found himself remembering the 11 year old he’d met on Platform 9 ¾ – the boy who had introduced him to his first Famous Wizards Cards, the same boy who had taken him into his home, given him his first taste of family. He couldn’t do it. That is, not unless Ron left him no choice.  
  
Watching Malfoy pretend to read, he couldn’t help but be amazed that the man hadn’t gone mad. Harry knew what it was to have someone threatening you every waking minute, to be left on pins and needles waiting for someone else to make the next move. But Harry had never had to face Voldemort without magic, without a defense. As he settled in for another evening, he silently swore to himself – and to Malfoy – that Ron wouldn’t hurt him again.

 

  
**61 days**   
  
Harry stared blurrily at the paperwork piling up on his desk, mentally swearing as new documents whizzed through the door every couple of minutes. He hadn’t slept a bit the last two nights. He thought longingly of the sleeping draughts Madame Pomfrey would sometimes prescribe him back at Hogwarts. He checked the clock and seriously considered doing a fire call. But then again, he knew the Daily Prophet would have a front page story before he could actually get the draught and use it. Dammit, but fame was a right pain in the arse.   
  
He’d go down to the infirmary, but that would be as bad as the firecall – and besides, after making a nuisance of himself the last couple of days, using his fame and his status as Malfoy’s guardian cum jailor to coax confidential information out of the pretty young medi-wizard, he figured he’d just about pushed his luck enough in that quarter for one week.  
  
Closing his eyes, wishing they didn’t feel quite so much like sandpaper, he had almost dozed off when he heard a discreet “hmmph” at the door.  
  
Opening them slowly, Arthur Weasley slowly came into focus. He smiled, and Harry returned his own wan facsimile of a greeting.  
  
“Have you got a minute, Harry? There’s something I’ve got to talk to you about.”  
  
Harry shivered. Over the years every time those particular words came out of Mr. Weasley’s mouth – well, it only meant trouble. Nodding wordlessly, Harry motioned toward an empty chair.  
  
Mr. Weasley, gave a quick shake of his head, “Uhm – Fancy a cup of tea? I was thinking of nipping round to that nice patisserie in London.”  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow. Terrific. What Mr. Weasley didn’t say was ‘Muggle’ London’. Remaining silent, he stood and grabbed his cloak. Using his wand to transform it into a raincoat, with another quick flick his robes were transformed into khakis and a button down. He watched as Mr. Weasley did the same, and tried to hide a grin as he almost got it right. He’d pass.  
  
“How are you doing, Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked as they stepped into the bustling Muggle London street. He peered at Harry. “You look tired.”  
  
“I haven’t been sleeping – well, at all lately.”   
  
Seeming satisfied for the moment, Mr. Weasley remained silent until they had ordered and were seated at the nearby patisserie.  
  
“Harry – I’m breaking several rules by speaking to you like this – but you’ve been like a son to me for years.” He looked down into his tea, nervously breaking his scones into crumbs. “There’s an investigation. Into how Malfoy’s getting on in your care.”  
  
Harry’s cup clattered to the saucer. “What?”  
  
“The Wizengamot is convening this afternoon – Malfoy’s medical records are being examined. There’s talk…” Mr. Weasley broke off, and looked around, as if not even trusting they were safe amongst the Muggles. “Harry – the question has been raised as to whether or not you are physically abusing Draco Malfoy.”  
  
“Me?!” Harry sat back in his chair, his breath coming heavy, head suddenly pounding. He watched the walls sway, and for a crazy moment he thought he was going to faint. “It’s not me!” He choked out and then quickly shut his mouth. What the hell was he going to say to Mr. Weasley?  
  
Mr. Weasley placed his hand on Harry’s wrist. “So it’s true then?”  
  
Harry nodded, sick to his stomach. He too looked around uneasily, imagining wizards at every table. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly. “Mr. Weasley – I only found out a few days ago that someone has been hurting Malfoy. I’ve been trying to figure out the extent of his injuries. Trying to understand what happened.”   
  
“Who is it?” Urgency permeated the air around them.  
  
“I – Mr. Weasley – Arthur – I….” Harry shook his head. He couldn’t say. Couldn’t tell Arthur Weasley who the culprit was.   
  
“Harry – you can tell me now. Or you can tell the Wizengamot this afternoon.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“This is serious, son. If you don’t tell them of your own accord, you’ll tell them under Veritaserum. Is that what you want, Harry?”  
  
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. There was no way out of this.  
  
“Who are you protecting? It’s not going to go well on you, in any case.”  
  
“I know, I know. I was responsible for his welfare.” Harry’s voice was tortured, and in his head he heard Hermione chastising him. “I didn’t know, honestly, Mr. Weasley. He told me he was clumsy because of the loss of his magic.”  
  
“What?” Puzzlement showed on the other man’s face.  
  
Harry hurriedly explained the excuses Malfoy had given him for his cuts, bruises, and needed healings. “I know, I know – it’s obvious now that I know what’s really been happening. I should have known then too.”  
  
Mr. Weasley took a long swallow of tea, and then poured himself another cup, liberally mixing in sugar and milk. “I don’t understand why Malfoy would lie to you. Why wouldn’t he tell you who his assailant was?”  
  
“Hermione says it was pride.”  
  
Mr. Weasley looked startled. “Hermione? What does she know about this?”  
  
“She found out last week, the same time I did. She came over after – after someone had admitted…” Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, wishing back the words.  
  
The air hung with the unspoken name between them. Harry heard the chair creak as Mr. Weasley sat back hard into it. Harry hazarded a glance at him.  
  
“It’s Ron,” he stated, no question in his voice. “He’s the person you’re protecting, isn’t he?”  
  
Opening his mouth, wishing he could deny it, Harry abruptly shut it. There was no point.   
  
“They’ll get copies of your floo records, Harry. There’s no point putting yourself under the Veritaserum.” Mr. Weasley’s hand shook as he lifted the cup to his mouth. He blinked rapidly, and then looked beyond Harry, seemingly focusing on a point on the far wall. “He never recovered from losing his mother early in the war. And Bill and Ginny? Well, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, it was.”  
  
Harry nodded, not even fighting the tears in his eyes. “He’s not a bad man, Arthur.”  
  
“ – He’s just made bad choices,” Mr. Weasley finished. His voice had a tremor in it. He covered his mouth with his hand. “I don’t know what to say, Harry. I’m ashamed. For a moment, this morning when I heard, I thought you might actually be, you know, hurting Malfoy. And to think it’s Ron. Harry, I owe you an apology.”   
  
Harry’s heart broke and he quickly shook his head, “No, no you don’t.” He forced a smile, and reaching across, captured Mr. Weasley’s hand, knowing it was poor comfort. “You never have to apologize to family, Arthur. Never.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry stumbled from the courtroom. He’d spent hours listening to the medical accounts by the endless healers who had treated Malfoy over the last four and a half years. Apparently it was they who had approached the council with concerns about Malfoy’s treatment whilst in Harry’s care. Injuries had been occurring at an escalating rate in the past year.  
  
Revolted, he remembered their descriptions of broken bones, deep lacerations, bruised internal organs, and injuries to the groin. “He’s not a bad man,” he’d said to Arthur Weasley only hours earlier. Given what he’d just learned, he decided he’d been wrong. Very wrong. He didn’t know the bastard who had done these things to Draco.  
  
Draco? When did the man imprisoned in his house become Draco? When he realized no one gave a damn about Draco except some medi-witches and healers? He was living under Harry’s own roof, for fuck’s sake.  
  
Harry had to stop and lean against a wall, just breathing, hoping he didn’t fold straight down to the floor. He was to blame. He should have known.   
  
Stomach heaving, he looked for a shadowed niche where he could hide until the courtroom had emptied. He didn’t think he could take any more questions; any more disgusted or – even worse – admiring looks from those who still hated all things Malfoy. He just couldn’t do it. Not now.  
  
Slinking into a darker area, he slumped against the wall again, sickened.  
  
Why? Why did Draco allow it to happen? Or at least never tell anyone?  
  
It didn’t have to happen this way. Harry clenched and unclenched his fists reflexively. He thought about all the people who had been hurt, killed, because of him. Sirius, Cedric, his parents. They had been only the first of many.  
  
This was different. Draco could have spoken up. He didn’t have to play the victim, leaving more bloodshed at his door.   
  
Harry felt the heat in his cheeks, teeth grinding together as he pulled himself off the wall. Well, the difference between this and all the other times was that Draco Malfoy was still alive and he could damn well explain himself.

 

**Day 61 – 5pm**  
  
Draco sat at his desk, staring unseeingly at the book on medical charms open before him. Something was definitely off. Potter had been home for the last few nights. He’d been alone. No tarts. No parties. No new interviews that he could ascertain either.  
  
He slammed the book shut, disgusted with his inability to concentrate. He’d made ‘healing’ his next course of study. With the increasing brutality of Weasley’s attacks, he feared soon he might not be able to wait for someone to find him or to get him to a healer. But healing charms and spells required an enormous amount of energy, something that he wasn’t sure he could harness without a wand. Hell, lately, he wasn’t even sure he had that much magic to harness.   
  
This last beating had taken it out of him. Even within the circle, he felt drained, dispirited.   
  
He’d not taken Granger’s advice. He hadn’t wanted a healer poking and prodding around. The last thing he’d asked of her was that _she_ not send a healer either. She had looked at him, skepticism in her eyes as she buttoned her blouse. Finally, however, she had nodded her acquiescence.   
  
Draco squared his jaw. It was going to be up to him to heal his own wounds from here on out.   
  
Turning his mind back to the problem of Potter and his strange behavior, he pondered if it was because he’d caught Granger leaving the house that afternoon. She’d left without uttering a cleaning charm, and Draco knew damn good and well she’d smelled exactly like what she’d been doing.   
  
He’d heard their voices after she’d left him. They’d roused him from a peaceful doze, probably the first undisturbed sleep he’d had in months. He’d been too tired, too drained to go downstairs and get involved.   
  
Later, when Draco had finally dragged himself downstairs for dinner, Potter had once again managed to look everywhere but at his face. But he hadn’t gone out that evening. Nor any evening since then.   
  
Potter’s dreams were different now too. The sex was softer. More languid. The kisses were indolent, combined with long careful strokes of hands showing tenderness. There were whispers of love, pleas for forgiveness. Things that Draco had never heard before, not from Potter. Not from anyone, actually.   
  
Draco was disturbed by the changes. Every morning for the last week, he’d awakened aroused, something else that rarely happened. He could even get off without magic, which had only happened once since his incarceration, with Granger.   
  
Inwardly he smiled. _Damn Mudblood. She’s contaminated me. Even he heard the affection in his inner voice. Well, well, Lucius. Rolling in your grave, are you? Do you know that your heir has slept with a Mudblood? And enjoyed it.  
  
Fuck you. _  
  
  


Draco started as his bedroom door flew open and in blazed Potter. “What the hell? How dare you come into my room uninvited!” he shouted, discombobulated.  
  
“It’s my house.”   
  
Draco was speechless. For all the years he’d been there Potter had never lorded it over him that Draco was only there at his sufferance.   
  
“I’ve just come from the Wizengamot. There’s been an inquiry.”   
  
Draco felt a fissure of fear burn low in his belly.   
  
Potter was shaking, his voice very, very low. “What the hell happened, Malfoy? How many times was he here? And why the hell didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Draco snapped his mouth shut. Resolutely he faced the wall. He tried to take in what he thought Potter was saying. An inquiry? He slumped in shame. They knew. They all knew.  
  
“Dammit, I want an answer, Malfoy. They thought it was me – ” Potter broke off. “ – They thought it was me hurting you.”  
  
Draco’s faced burned. “That’s rich,” he answered, sickened. “I can assume I’ll be reading about it on the front page of the Daily Prophet?”   
  
Potter made an aborted sound of annoyance before he spoke. “Listen – just tell me what happened.”  
  
“So you can get it right for Witch Weekly? I think not.” He still refused to look meet Potter’s eyes.   
  
“I’m trying to help you. But you’re going to have to tell me what happened.”   
  
Suddenly furious, Draco gathered his indignation around him like a cloak. After all, it was all he had left. “Why? You’ll just believe what you want, no matter what I say. I’m the traitor, remember?”  
  
“I saved you from Azkaban! The least you can do is – ”   
  
“—what, Potter?” Draco crossed the floor, standing toe to toe with Potter, his body vibrating with anger. “What shall I do? Kiss your ass? Is that what you want?”   
  
“What I want is the truth! I want to know what Ron did to you. And I want to know why you let him. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Draco stared. He felt the heat radiating off the other man’s body. “Why should I have? It’s just like everything else you refuse to see, you sanctimonious bastard! You knew it.”  
  
“I did not!” Potter contested, his voice rising, bright red splotches appearing on his cheeks.  
  
“How could you miss it?” Draco didn’t even try to hide his disbelief. “Just how clumsy did you think I was?” He was moments away from hyperventilating.  
  
“But you said – ”   
  
“If I said the moon was made of cheese that wouldn’t make it so.” Draco felt the room spinning and backed up, collapsing into his desk chair, head lowered, toward his knees. Could he be any more humiliated? “Besides, when have you ever believed anything I’ve ever said anyway?”  
  
“What did he do to you?” Potter’s voice was low again.  
  
Draco knew Potter was fighting for control. Sod that. He wanted the other wizard as off kilter as he was. “Quid pro quo,” he sneered. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about what happened if you tell me what you dream at night.”  
  
For a single moment, everything stopped. Their breathing sounded harsh in the ensuing silence. Then, Harry rushed him, and they were tumbling to the floor, elbows and knees cracking against one another. “Dammit, Malfoy! This is what happened, isn’t it? You goaded Ron!”  
  
“That’s right, blame the victim,” Draco whispered, head resting against the cool floor. There was no point fighting any longer. Closing his eyes, Draco breathed in the smell of the man above him, luxuriating in the feel of Potter’s body on top of him. He’d seen it in his dreams, now he knew how it felt. Though Potter was heavier than Draco, his weight felt divine. It took Draco a moment to realize that Potter wasn’t moving at all. Not to hit him, nor to pull away.   
  
Triumph roared through his veins. “Cat got your tongue, Potter?” He rocked his hips up and heard the other man’s intake of breath and -- then Potter was trying to scramble away.   
  
Clamping his hands around Potter’s hips, digging into the firm flesh, Draco countered the movement. “Oh, no, you don’t. Stay right there. I think we’re finally getting to the truth.” Experimentally, he bucked up. “Right there, I think.” He moved again and enjoyed the hitch in Potter’s breathing; he felt Potter’s erection straining in the expensive robes. “Now – since you’ve finally started being honest with me, I’ll be happy to answer your questions about the Weasel.”  
  
“What are you doing?” Potter rasped.   
  
Draco knew at this moment, Potter wasn’t thinking about that bastard, Weasley. “Oh, come now. You’ve certainly had enough with every tart in London to know what I’m doing.” Draco waited for a rejoinder. When it didn’t come, he sank back onto the hardwood floor, allowing a bit of distance so he could catch Potter’s eye. “Are you going to tell me you don’t want this?”  
  
“Malfoy – Draco…you’re my prisoner – we shouldn’t…we can’t.”  
  
“Potter – Harry,” Draco mimicked. “Almost every night I’ve watched you fuck me. The show never stopped. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve watched you fuck every blonde you can get your hands on. I think for the sake of your sanity – and the safety of blonde witches everywhere – we should very much do this. Don’t you?”  
  
“I – I…” Potter looked absolutely green. “How did you know??”  
  
Draco managed a small shrug. “I think the binding spell.” It was an easy out.  
  
Potter slumped, forehead resting on Draco’s shoulder. “The bloody binding spell again…I can’t…I don’t know how.”   
  
Sensing Potter’s surrender, Draco murmured, “Oh, yes, you do.” Rhythmically moving up and down, he was pleased that Potter met him in perfect time. “Trust me…” Draco couldn’t believe how glorious it felt. “You do.”  
  
“I don’t – ” Potter faltered. “I don’t – I can’t – it’s, like, prison mentality – I don’t want you like this.”   
  
“Prison what?” Draco puzzled, his hands running up Potter’s back, kneading tense muscles.   
  
“It’s a Muggle term. It means because I’m the only person available. You know, like in prison.”  
  
“I can assure you, it doesn’t apply in wizard prison. Besides, this goes back a bit farther than just the time I’ve been in your ‘care’, doesn’t it?” Draco paused, enjoying the feel of Potter’s warm breath tickling his ear.   
  
“I’ve given this a lot of thought: perhaps we wasted our school years.” He raised his eyebrow in question. Ruthlessly, he quashed the fear of rejection that was threatening to overwhelm him. It was too late now. The gauntlet was down.  
  
He watched the inner war waging in Potter’s face.   
  
Finally, eyes closed, Potter nodded.   
  
Draco too closed his eyes too, giving silent thanks.   
  
Potter made a move to shift and his arm slipped.   
  
Draco froze, trying in vain to stifle a grunt of pain as a sharp elbow hit his tender ribs. Eyes flying open, he saw concern on Potters face.  
  
“What is it?” Potter’s voice sounded soft, needy…not Potter-like, at all. All traces of “Mr. Wizard” were gone.  
  
When he didn’t answer, Potter moved to sit up slowly and with exacting care; he straddled Draco’s thighs.   
  
Draco turned his head away from the searching face. He didn’t think he could stand any more kindness at the moment.   
  
Potter unzipped Draco’s hooded jacket, but then stopped at the sight of the button down shirt. “Someday you’re going to explain your fascination with Muggle clothing, but for now, where does it hurt?” Not waiting for an answer, Potter deftly opened the shirt, revealing Draco’s bruised flesh.   
  
“Fuck!” Potter exclaimed, his breath coming fast. “How many times has he done this to you? I’m so sorry.” Potter reached out, fingers grazing the worst of the bruising. “I’m so sorry.”   
  
Draco closed his eyes, the moment destroyed, ruined. With no animosity in his voice he spoke. “I don’t want your pity.” Hearing the sound of a wand being unsheathed, Draco opened his eyes. He waited, silent while Potter drew his shirt further apart, revealing even more bruises.   
  
“I’ll kill him,” Potter muttered.  
  
Draco choked back a sob and looked away. Where their thighs met, he could feel the magic pooling beneath Potter’s skin. Its pull was seductive. Debating the wisdom of what he was about to do, Draco reached up, stilling the wand in Potter’s hand. A tense moment passed between them while Draco’s inner voice questioned his sanity. “Potter – Harry – don’t. Let me.”  
  
Potter looked puzzled, and Draco motioned to be allowed to get up.  
  
Moving carefully to the side, Potter reached to support Draco as he made to sit.   
  
Draco reached for the bottom drawer of his desk, stifling a groan, and drew out a tin of salt.  
  
“What’s that?” Potter asked.  
  
“Wait,” Draco commanded. “Stand up.”  
  
Potter complied, and again, reached to help him. It was a kindness that almost broke Draco. The heat of Potter’s magic jumped between them, helping to soothe the inner voice that continued to prophesy destruction.   
  
Under Potter’s ardent gaze, Draco opened the silver tin, and poured a healthy measure of the white granules into his palm. He managed a tight smile. “Wait. Stand very still.”  
  
Walking around Potter, clockwise, murmuring in Old English, Draco cast the circle. Within seconds the dome sprang up, encapsulating them in its unique energy force.  
  
“What the hell– ?” Potter’s voice was full of wonder.  
  
“Hell has nothing to do with it, “ Draco remarked over his shoulder.  
  
Once the dome stabilized, he turned to face Potter, a real smile lighting his face this time. “Wait.” Magic already humming, this time differently as the energy of the circle and his own magic began interacting with Potter’s, drawing it out.   
  
Lifting his hands, Draco closed his eyes and began to pull power from the universe, from Potter, and directed it to the bruises on his torso. He felt his hair begin to lift as the electricity danced across his skin.   
  
Potter gasped.   
  
Draco carried on, using his hands to direct the energy, feeling the aches and bruises ease, bones knitting back together. The magic heating up his body, caressing his skin, making desire pool like liquid heat in his gut.  
  
Once he was sure the bruises were completely healed, Draco opened his eyes.   
  
“Draco!”  
  
An incredible aurora of color and energy wove itself around Potter – Harry, the electricity dancing on his skin, in his hair as well.   
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“Wandless magic,” Draco responded, reaching out to touch his own silvery white magic as it further moved to intertwine with the riotous color that was Harry’s.  
  
“It’s incredible.” Harry’s voice reflected his wonder. “How did you – I mean, what…?”  
  
Draco laughed. “Why, Potty, you’re actually speechless.”  
  
Harry reached into the silver-white shimmer, as if testing the energy. “You’re shining.” He pulled Draco close. “My God, you’re beautiful.”  
  
“I always have been.”  
  
“Have you now?” Harry teased.   
  
Their laughter was cut off as their lips met – for the first and the hundredth time. Draco moaned as the Boy Who Lived delved deeply into his open mouth. No matter how many times he’d seen it happen, he was surprised at the reality of the heat, the nip of teeth, and the softly probing tongue that seemed bent on learning every surface, tasting every bit of his mouth.   
  
As they came up for air, Harry nuzzled Draco’s ear. “It seems so surreal. I’ve done this forever.”  
  
Draco hummed into him, his hands, moving to undo Harry’s robes. After a moment of fooling with the clasp, he just closed his eyes. Within seconds they were both naked. He reopened his eyes to startled green. “You’re going to fuck me now. Like you’ve done _forever._ ”   
  
Harry’s hands tightened, and his breath caught. “Not if you keep talking like that.” He ducked his head. “Something about the energy – it feels like, well, I – I’m close.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear out cobwebs, then ran his hands up Draco’s arms. “Later, you’re going to explain to me how you stripped us. ”  
  
“Sounds like I’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Draco responded, teasing.  
  
“So you do.” Harry laughed.   
  
“So I do,” Draco conceded. A low laugh passed through his lips pressed into Harry’s collarbone. “Later, I promise.” Draco ran his tongue over the jutting bone. “As for dirty talk, turns you on, does it? Funny, that’s never been printed in Witch Weekly. Good to know I’ll have something to sell when this is over.”  
  
“Oi, you!” Harry objected. “What’s this ‘over’ thing?” Harry’s fingers skimmed up Draco’s now healed chest.   
  
Draco shivered, and looked down to see their naked bodies meeting for the first time. Harry’s skin was olive compared to his own pale flesh. It was beautiful.  
  
“Could we actually have sex before you decide to leave me?” Harry asked.  
  
Draco started, pulled out of his musings. “Me? Leave you?” He pulled back from the embrace, eyes unfocusing for a moment to take in the beautiful colors swirling around them. “You forget – I’m bound to you.”  
  
Harry’s hands swept down and ground their hips together, groaning as he did. “Damned right you are. Best you don’t forget it.”  
  
Draco looked up through long lashes. “I believe some of me has bled through this bond to you.” He broke off, lost in the heat of their bodies. “That would explain the interest in your looks and fashion you suddenly developed right after the bonding…” Draco gave him a moment to let it sink in before continuing. “Though I suppose your arrogance was always your own.”  
  
Harry’s look of confidence faltered and Draco was reminded of the twelve year old he’d once known. “Does that mean – could I be influencing you? This? Is that why you’ve dreamed ‘us’ too?”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and allowed a hand to trail down between them. “Oh, for the love of all that is magical. Stop with that martyr-prisoner-mentality thing, Potter.” He gripped both their erections in his hand, sliding it up and then down.   
  
He was delighted when Harry groaned, his body quivering against Draco’s. “Feel this? We both want this. Me, since fifth year. And if I’ve influenced you, causing you to shag your way through half of the blonde witch population, well, that’s too bad. Nothing is going to stop me from finally getting mine.”  
  
Harry’s breath was coming shallower now, his eyes squeezed shut, body trembling, leaning into Draco. However, when Harry opened his eyes, they were glinting with mischief. “So you think you’re in control of this situation, do you?”  
  
“Uhm.” Draco smirked, his hand doing a slow pump. “Yes, actually.”  
  
“So you think I’m going to fuck you? Like I’ve done nightly for the past three years?”  
  
Draco was agog. “Three years? You’ve wanted me for three years? And didn’t do anything about it?”  
  
Harry drew back and their eyes locked. “How long have you been in my dreams?”  
  
“Less than three months, actually.” The flesh beneath his hand throbbed, and Draco shivered violently through a surge of pleasure.  
  
“How?” Harry questioned. “How could you be in my dreams?”  
  
Groaning, Draco began the slow cant of his hand again. “Can we get back to it, please?”  
  
Answering in kind, Harry nodded. “Where were we?”  
  
Draco captured the bottom of Harry’s ear and sucked. “You asked if I thought you were going to fuck me.”  
  
“And your answer?” Harry’s voice was breathy.  
  
Draco smiled. “Yes, actually. I believe you’re going to finally fuck me.”   
  
“You’re wrong.”   
  
Harry pulled away so abruptly that Draco cried out, but only a moment passed before Harry dropped to the floor, his knees thudding lightly as they hit the hardwood. Long fingers snaked out and grasped Draco’s ass, pulling until Harry his lips were flush against Draco’s hipbone.   
  
“I’ve never done this in the dream, have I?” Harry’s tongue ran a wet line downward, the touch maddening.  
  
“No,” Draco gasped, arching forward.   
  
Harry’s hands kneaded his ass, fingers trailing into the valley between his cheeks.   
  
“Harry!”  
  
“I wasn’t kidding, Draco,” Harry murmured into the juncture of hip and leg, gently nipping. “I’ve never done this before…with a man.” A hand snaked around and carefully slid down Draco’s erection.  
  
“Please,” Draco begged, his hips jerking forward. Harry’s hands burned electric sensations everywhere they touched.   
  
“Shhh,” Harry cooed, yet his hand continued to ratchet up the heat. “I’m not going to fuck you. It isn’t going to go quite as you’ve planned.”  
  
Draco whimpered, caught in the web of desire. The energy pulsing all over his body ramped up where Harry was touching him. The wet warmth of Harry’s tongue just reaching out to taste him caused him to groan in need. “Please, Harry – anything.”   
  
Harry stilled and Draco almost panicked. Looking down he saw Harry smiling up at him.  
  
“Watch me, Draco,” He commanded.   
  
Draco nodded, but couldn’t help but notice that the surety in Harry’s voice didn’t quite reach his eyes. He saw a hint of worry there just as Harry’s lips surrounded him.   
  
Draco saw spangles behind his eyes as he bit his lip, stifling a scream. The heat, the wet warmth – like nothing, nothing he’d ever known before. Despite his efforts to keep quiet, Draco moaned and buried his hands in Harry’s hair, loving the feel of those messy strands that still defied taming.   
  
Harry pulled back, “Is it – how am I? Draco – Tell me….” The uncertainty in his eyes was painful.  
  
“You’re doing fine,” Draco whimpered. “Please….”  
  
Harry’s head bowed, his mouth engulfing Draco once again.  
  
The energy around them intensified and Draco shouted as Harry swirled his tongue around the head of his cock. “Harry!” he cried. “Shit!”   
  
Harry’s hands urged him forward and Draco allowed Harry to set the rhythm. Harry’s hands both incited and gentled him. The pace was agonizingly slow, and Draco felt every cell of his body light up with the sensation. The magic closed around them, and Draco wasn’t sure what was keeping him upright – his own legs? The pressure of Harry’s hands and mouth? Or the very energy of the dome?   
  
Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched Harry pleasure him. The magic around them crackled and contracted, and Draco knew he was close. “Harry,” his voice broke.   
  
Green eyes looked up and locked with his, and Draco wasn’t ashamed of the tears. _Malfoys don’t cry._ But this wasn’t the first time he’d cried in front of Harry Potter.   
  
His mouth open in a silent scream, his demeanor shattering around him, Draco came.  
  
Collapsing to his knees, Harry broke Draco’s fall.  
  
Draco allowed himself to be positioned, as if boneless, until he was half sprawled across Harry’s lap, head on Harry’s shoulder.   
  
Harry’s hands soothed over his skin, as if he were made of the finest silk, trailing lower, touching him with a tenderness that made Draco ache.   
  
“Stop – ” he begged. “I can’t – ” Harry kept stroking. How long had it been since Draco had been held? Cuddled? Loved?   
  
Even with Granger, the kindest touch he’d felt in years, it had been greedier on both their parts.   
  
_Greed_. Draco struggled to sit up, “What about you?” he queried; suddenly realizing he’d been derelict in duty to Harry.  
  
Harry rocked him. “I came when you did. It was like I felt what you felt.” He shrugged. “I don’t understand it but it was incredible.”  
  
Draco nodded, stunned. Was it the dome? The binding spell? Who knew any more?  
  
They sat in silence for a bit longer.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
Hmmm?” Draco lifted his eyes slowly.   
  
“Can we move this to the bed?”  
  
Draco started. He’d have to close the circle. “My magic will go.”  
  
Harry peered at him, gears grinding behind his eyes. After a moment he sussed it out. “It won’t feel the same?”  
  
“It might not.” Draco thought about it. He’d enjoyed his encounter with Granger. And Harry was his bondmate. He was willing to risk it.   
  
Struggling a bit, they got to their feet. Once again Draco had Harry stand still as he closed the circle, thanking the elements as always.

 

  
**Day 61 – Winding Down….or just getting started?**  
  
As Draco pulled back the duvet, he began in halting speech to tell Harry how he’d learned to harness his magic without his wand. His words tumbled forth until he was spilling his suspicions about the binding spell and the circle, explaining what he knew about blood magic so fast that he saw Harry struggle to keep up.   
  
“So, we have been influencing each other,” Harry commented, crawling in between the sheets.  
  
“I think so, yes.” Draco snuggled up against Harry, pulling the duvet up around their waists. “It would explain your amazing transformation into ‘Mr. Wizard’ and my desire to wear Muggle clothing, don’t you think?”  
  
Harry pulled back, a grin splitting his face. “Wait a minute. You’re saying my sudden – sudden as of four years ago – interest in being the UK’s most eligible bachelor is really _your_ interest?”  
  
Draco playfully punched him in the gut. “No you clod. I’m saying your sudden fashion acumen didn’t spring up overnight, did it? One doesn’t just wake up one morning and know silk from cotton. That bled over.   
  
“Your desire to bed every single blonde female – well, that’s one I think you’d best take up with your psyche.” Draco ran his hand down Harry’s torso, beneath the covers, and over Harry’s bare hip, enjoying the tremors under his fingers. “Though on second thought, I’d say the answer to that is self-evident, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Harry groaned affirmatively. “Okay, okay. So, I had a few issues.”  
  
“A few?” Draco scoffed. “Are you mad? You had all those dreams and you couldn’t figure it out? You’re thick as a plank!” He moved closer, enjoying the hitch in Harry’s breathing. “What was it? What was so bad that you couldn’t bring yourself to act on your dreams?”  
  
Color bloomed on Harry’s face, staining down his neck and chest. “I – I – well, our history hasn’t been altogether positive. I found it hard to fathom that I could be attracted to you, or that I should be.” Harry paused, looking away. “You said ‘since fifth year’. Have you really known that long?”  
  
Draco stilled. Now it was his turn to stammer. “Well – I – I dunno. I think so.” Blowing out a breath, he tried again. “It’s been a long time. That I do know. It’s been difficult living here these last three months. You know, with you. Knowing you wanted me. But you wouldn’t do anything about it. Watching you – ” he broke off.  
  
Harry reached over, and caressed Draco’s cheek, turning up his chin until their eyes met. “Don’t. Please don’t.” He leaned forward, sucking Draco’s lower lip into his mouth, tugging gently. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For so much.”   
  
Draco pulled away. “Let’s not.”   
  
Harry looked startled.  
  
“I mean it,” Draco warned. “I don’t want to talk about the past. I should have told you about Weasley. I should have told you about the dreams. You should have acted on them. Had we done all that, then I should have told you about the wandless magic. You should have – shall I continue?”  
  
Harry laughed softly shaking his head. He pulled Draco to him again, this time nuzzling his neck. “Woulda, shoulda, coulda, as the Americans say.” Harry drew a deep breath. “You’re right. We should talk about the future.”   
  
Draco snuggled down. “Like when you’re going to fuck me?”  
  
“Draco! Are you always so crude?”   
  
“Are you turning into a Hufflepuff?” Draco rolled his eyes. “Can you think of a better word?”  
  
Harry colored, but threw up his hands in defeat. “Not one that’s any more descriptive, actually.”  
  
“Well then, when will it be?”  
  
“Contrary to what my dreams were, I’ve – ” Harry broke off. “ I mean….my experience with blokes is rather limited. I’m not sure…well…how to go on.”   
  
“With due haste,” Draco teased, charmed by Harry’s reticence, curious about his ‘limited’ experience. But that was for another time. He reached between them, and drew his hand up Harry’s hardening length. “You want to, you know,” he murmured into Harry’s flushed skin. “Transform that candle into lube.”  
  
A sound of pleasure escaped from Harry, and he reached for his wand. Within seconds a red pot of lubricant was on the bedside table.   
  
Draco shifted, and pushed Harry back onto the mattress, throwing the covers aside in the process. “No lubrication charms. I want to feel you when you prepare me.”  
  
“I know it’s impolite to ask, but Draco – have you, you know?”  
  
“Harry Potter! I cannot believe you asked me that!” Draco admonished, in mock horror. He felt the blood thrumming through his veins, the after effects of the circle combined with the residual feel of Harry’s magic merging with this own. He stretched up, enjoying himself now.  
  
Arching up and over Harry like a cat after a long sleep, Draco moved and then settled himself around Harry’s thighs. Leaning down, he traced Harry’s bottom lip, tonguing it before capturing his mouth. The kiss was long, passionate. Until their tongues began to dual for dominance. Draco laughed and pulled away. “You’re an idiot, Potter.”  
  
He shivered as Harry ran his hands up his thighs and around his ass.  
  
“Am I?” Harry’s voice was rough.   
  
Grinding lightly down, Draco stropped lazily against Harry’s erection. “Yes, but you’re my idiot.” He grinned down at Harry. “Now get the lube.”  
  
Harry complied and within moments Draco felt a questing fingertip delicately circling his entrance. He groaned, and threw his head back, clenching around the soft intruder. It felt nothing but good.  
  
“You’re sure about this?” Harry questioned, fingers still. Not removed, just still.  
  
Draco slit open his eyes and looked long and hard into Harry’s own searching eyes. “Yes. I’m sure.” And he was. He wanted this. Badly.  
  
Harry reached up, pulling Draco to him, kissing him soundly as his fingers continued their quest, softly stretching.   
  
Almost overcome by the sensation, Draco threw his head back at the invasion he’d dreamed of these last weeks. The feel of Harry’s careful hands, lovingly readying him was far more erotic than his own touch had ever been.   
  
Through the haze of pleasure, Draco began to be aware that he felt the echo of every touch he made on Harry’s skin. Every swipe of tongue, dig of nails, nip of teeth, slide of flesh against Harry, Draco felt it all.   
  
“I’m ready,” Draco breathed into Harry’s mouth. He felt Harry’s fingers withdraw and he cried out from the loss. Quickly, Draco slid onto his back, reversing their positions. “Hurry….”  
  
“Draco – ” Harry settled between Draco’s legs, gently pushing them up. He stopped to kiss the backs of Draco’s thighs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“You won’t.” Draco’s voice was confident, though his body trembled in anticipation, shocked at how vulnerable he felt, yet wanton at the same time.   
  
Draco took in the hungry look in Harry’s eyes, as he positioned himself, and knew any pain would be worth the pleasure.   
  
The first blunt push was different from Harry’s fingers. The feeling of the stretch softer, smoother, bigger. The first push took Draco’s breath away.   
  
Harry watched him, face covered in sweat, seemingly anxious for any sign of pain.   
  
Wanting to reach up and lick the sweat off, Draco arched forward, forcing more of Harry inside of him. The stretch was so good he groaned.  
  
Harry groaned with him, the sound music to Draco’s ears and he marveled at how he ever lived without this.   
  
“I feel you,” Harry breathed, wonder in his voice. “It’s like I’m in you. But you’re in me. Do you feel it too?”  
  
Overcome, Draco could only nod. It was as Harry said: he felt everything, like he was inside as well as the one being filled. Nerve endings Draco didn’t know he had fired to life. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing.   
  
“How?” Harry asked, as he slowly began to move. “How can I feel so much? How can it feel like this? Is it supposed to feel like this? ”  
  
“I think it’s the bond,” Draco rasped, arching up into Harry’s arms, back coming up off the mattress as Harry slid in and out at a maddeningly slow place. “Oh for Merlin’s sake, Potter!” They cried out at the same time when Harry hit his prostate. “Again!” he commanded. “Hurry – hurry.”  
  
Harry stilled.   
  
Draco stared. “What?”  
  
Harry wet his lips. “In the dreams – you always said to ‘hurry’.”  
  
Draco moaned, bucking his hips up, wanting that friction again, needing more, hungry for more. “Can we talk about this later, please?”  
  
Harry gasped, and began moving again, faster this time. “Later,” he promised.   
  
Draco arched his back again, as Harry moved faster, harder. Reaching for his own erection, he fisted himself in counterpart to Harry’s onslaught.   
  
An exhilarated laugh escaped from Harry’s throat. “Draco – I feel…I feel your hand on my cock. It’s impossible!”   
  
Draco could only nod, wonderstruck as Harry pounded into him. Where one began and the other one ended was getting harder and harder to discern. Feeling their orgasms building – both of them – like they were his own, dizzying in their strength, Draco choked out a half laugh, half cry.   
  
Tears sprang to both of their eyes and they stilled simultaneously.   
  
“Draco!”   
  
“Harry!”  
  
Their orgasms slammed into them with mind blowing alacrity, sweeping them into oblivion.   
  
  
  
  
  
Sometime later, Draco became aware that Harry was spooned around him.   
  
“Hold still,” Harry murmured. “I’ll spell us clean.”  
  
The magic danced along his skin, tingling over hypersensitive nerve-endings, and Draco shivered.   
  
“Hey,” Harry questioned. “Are you okay?”  
  
“You _are_ turning back into a Hufflepuff,” Draco responded, voice smoky. “What’s not to be fine?”  
  
Harry trailed kisses down his shoulder. “Well, I – I’ve heard the first time – well…..I didn’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”  
  
“Did I say it was my first time, Potter?” Draco turned away, swallowing around a lump that suddenly appeared in his throat, blinking quickly. After a moment he realized Harry was waiting for a response. Draco flexed his back and clenched his muscles, testing. He gave in. “I’m a bit sore – but no damage done, I think.”  
  
Settling down beside Draco, Harry pulled him close again. “Good.” His voice sounded sleepy.  
  
The unfamiliar warmth at his back seemed strangely more intimate than the acts they’d just shared. Allowing any remaining tension to bleed away, Draco closed his eyes, reveling in the embrace.

 

**60 days**  
  
Draco started awake, unsure what had disturbed him. Discomfited, he jerked away from the body in his bed. Turning he squinted down at – Harry! His mind cleared, and he remembered the evening’s events. And the inquiry.  
  
Not wanting to disturb Harry, Draco carefully slid out of bed. He stifled a groan as muscles he didn’t know he had protested the night’s abuse. He checked the clock: 6:15. They’d slept all night. Stomach growling, he stumbled to his wardrobe for a dressing gown.  
  
The inquiry.   
  
He sighed as he made his way to the toilet, and into the shower.  
  
  
  
  
Arms snaked around his waist, and Draco nearly dropped the crystal pitcher. As it was, orange juice slopped all over the marble cabinet top.   
  
“Good morning.” Harry nuzzled the nape of Draco’s neck. “You’re up earlier than I would have liked.”  
  
Draco eyed the clock on the wall. It was 7:30. They’d be late for work if they didn’t get a move on.  
  
“Court at eleven,” Harry said. His arms tightened, hand slipping under Draco’s dressing gown and into his pajama bottoms.  
  
Sighing heavily, Draco sat the pitcher down and turned into Harry’s arms, returning the embrace. Goose bumps rose as Harry’s hand settled on his ass. “I’d really rather not – court, I mean. If it’s all the same.”  
  
A low laugh sounded from Harry as he lightly rained kisses on Draco’s jaw. “Well, turning down an invitation to the Wizengamot is no easy feat.” He captured Draco’s mouth for long moments, tenderly laving his lower lip.   
  
“And if we don’t go?” Draco pulled away slightly. “They’ll send the aurors?”  
  
Harry’s other hand slid in Draco’s pajamas and he pulled their hips even closer. “Ah, that’s the beauty of it, they already have. I’m here to make sure you get to the church on time.”   
  
Draco pulled back, puzzled. “Sorry? ‘The church on time’? What does that mean?”  
  
Placing opened mouth kisses on Draco’s exposed neck, Harry chuckled. “I can see your Muggle education is still incomplete. It’s a line from Muggle lyrics. It means to make sure someone gets where they’re supposed to be on time.”  
  
Hurt, Draco pushed himself back, settling some two feet away. “What are you on about? You think this is a time to joke? I’m going to be a laughing stock this time tomorrow! Besides - what’s a church have to do with it?”  
  
“Draco?” Harry looked abashed. Silence stretched awkwardly. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be teasing you. I’m sorry.” Harry took a step forward. “It was thoughtless of me. It was a reference to a wedding…never mind.” He hung his head. “It’s just – as bad as things are, after last night, I feel…well, hopeful.”  
  
Draco froze; shocked that Potter would so callously put aside his coming public humiliation, yet another part was intrigued by his demeanor, his tone.  
  
Harry blushed, and looked down, stammering. He reached out his hand toward Draco, and then let it drop. “Draco – this is the first time in my life I’ve woken up with someone with whom I’ve wanted to keep waking up again. And again.”   
  
Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it.  
  
“Though technically not.” Harry rushed on. “Since you weren’t actually still there.”  
  
“What?” Draco blinked. “What are you saying?”   
  
“I – I – I don’t want this to be over.” Harry closed the distance between them. “I know we said we didn’t want to talk about the past last night. But I think we need to. If only so we can get on to the future.”  
  
 _The future?_ “Isn’t this a little sudden, Potter?” Confused and off center, Draco could barely fathom what he was hearing.   
  
“Sudden?” Harry volleyed back. “We’ve been living together for five years. We’ve known each other for over twelve years. I’d say it’s the longest courtship in history!”   
  
  
  
  
**The Wizengamot, 11:45am**  
  
“Mr. Draco Malfoy, currently in the custody of Mr. Harry Potter of London. The court asks your forgiveness in the negligence in which your welfare has been handled. We can assure you that Mr. Ronald Weasley will be dealt with appropriately. And a reprimand will be placed into Mr. Harry Potter’s file for his failure to protect you whilst in his custody.”   
  
Draco blanched.  
  
Harry’s back was ramrod straight, his face a mask.  
  
“The court never intended that you would suffer physical abuse at the hands of one of the Ministry’s own aurors. After taking your testimony, and hearing the testimony of various medical experts, Ms. Hermione Granger, and Mr. Harry Potter, the court has decided to commute the last 61 days of your sentence due to the hardships you have endured these last several months.”  
  
Draco felt his chin drop, and knew his mouth was hanging open.  
  
The Chief Interrogator, a dumpy wizard with a large black mustache whom Draco couldn’t place, continued. “The Wizengamott has already dispatched aurors to remove the dampening spells from Mr. Potter’s residence, as well as those specific to you, Mr. Malfoy, here at the Ministry.” The wizard inclined his head to Harry. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy – you should report to the St. Mungo’s immediately to have the binding spell removed.”  
  
Harry’s chin came up. “I don’t think so, sir.”  
  
You could have heard a pin drop.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” The Interrogator leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, gaze shifting between Harry and Draco.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Rita Skeeter on the edge of her seat, not breathing, Quick Quill quivering.  
  
Harry moved closer to Draco, reaching out, putting his hand at the small of his back.  
  
It was an outrageous show of possessiveness and Draco fought down mixed feelings of pride and annoyance. He would definitely be having a word with the smarmy git as soon as they were shot of this place.  
  
Harry cleared his throat, eyes sweeping the courtroom. He paused, causing everyone in the stands to crane forward on the benches.   
  
_And I was called ‘dramatic’ in my youth_ , Draco thought. He bit down on his tongue to keep from stopping the idiot. This wasn’t necessary. He watched as every eye was riveted on the famous Harry Potter, waiting to see what his pronouncement would be. Didn’t Harry know or realize he risked becoming an outcast too?  
  
“Sir – I speak for Mr. Draco Malfoy and myself when I say we’d like to file a petition to leave the binding spell in place. In fact, we’ll be making a move to strengthen it – permanently.”  
  
A collective intake of shocked breath permeated Courtroom 10.  
  
The Interrogator, sat back, flummoxed. “Sir – I don’t know if you know what you’re asking. Why would you request such a thing?”  
  
Draco broke, “Harry – ”   
  
Harry slid his arm completely around Draco now.   
  
The murmurs in the stands rose to a fervor pitch. Searching the crowd, Draco locked onto Hermione Granger. Her hands were clasped in front of her face, and he thought he saw tears in her eyes as she nodded and smiled her encouragement.  
  
“Silence! Silence!” The Interrogator beat the desk with his orb. “I will have silence!” He peered down at them. “Mr. Malfoy – is this what you want, as well?”  
  
The sudden silence was eerie in its completeness.  
  
Draco took a deep breath, and looked again to Hermione who was definitely brushing tears away, her face split into a grin. She was nodding her head in a manner reminiscent of Dobby. He then looked at Harry. The set of Harry’s jaw reminded him of the determined Gryffindor he’d once faced on the Quidditch pitch. He leaned in close. “Is this the church, Harry?”   
  
The stands creaked as everyone leaned forward, straining to catch his words.  
  
Harry blinked, his eyes suspiciously bright.   
  
Draco turned his face up toward the Interrogator. “Yes. This is my choice.” He turned to the stands, enjoyed the feel of his hair whirling and thought fondly of Lucius for the first time in years as he pulled the most imperious tone he could summon from within. “It is _our_ choice.”  
  
It took ten minutes for the court to come back under control. “Order! Order! I will have order!” The Interrogator banged his orb uselessly. Peering down, he frowned. “I see your minds are made up.” His voice made plain his thoughts on the matter. “We have one last matter to attend to before council is adjourned.”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrow, wondering what now.  
  
The wizard withdrew a long narrow box from somewhere on his right. After opening it, he proffered the box to Draco.  
  
His wand!  
  
“I daresay,” the wizard began, “you’ll be pleased to get this back.”  
  
Draco faltered just as his hand reached the box. Reaching inside, he withdrew the long slim implement. At his time of imprisonment, he’d thought being without it was the worst thing he’d ever endure. However, he now knew he was wrong.  
  
Holding it now, he weighed the unfamiliar, familiar weight in his hand. Turning with a flourish, he presented it to Harry.  
  
Startled, Harry hesitated, but then took it. Draco saw the question in his eyes.   
  
Draco bowed slightly at the waist. “I’ve found that a wand may not be as necessary as we’ve been led to believe.” His voice rang out, steady, commanding. He flashed his trademark smirk, and then turned back to Harry. “Shall we go home?” He was pleased to see a blush creep over his lover.  
  
Seeking Hermione’s eyes again, he shot her a reassuring smile. With no more effort that it would take to stir a cup of tea, Draco flicked his wrist. The heavy doors flew open; cracking into the ancient stone walls on either side. “Harry?”   
  
Harry nodded and then bowed his head. Draco heard him laugh over the roar of the crowd as they walked out of the courtroom. Free. At last.

 

**Epilogue  
  
  
Day 14 of Freedom, 9 am**  
  
Harry glanced around the shabby office. It was less furnished and hospitable than the disused classrooms he, Ron and Hermione sometimes stumbled into back at Hogwarts. His breath hitched for a moment before he brutally shoved away the pang of regret he felt for their lost childhood. Today was going to be difficult enough, no need for maudlin reminiscing.   
  
Draco, catching his mood shift, looked up at him, a question written in his eyes. Harry swallowed, and gave a quick shake of his head. Not here in front of the medi-witch. Given what they had to do this afternoon, maybe not ever.   
  
This was their second visit to St. Mungo’s upon order of the The Wizengamot. They’d insisted that Draco continue physical check ups to ensure there were no lingering after effects from Ron’s beatings. Harry fidgeted, nervous as the Medi-witch read the file. He’d hated any visit to the surgeon as a child. St. Mungo’s was no better, and he’d managed to make himself scarce during the last examination. His gaze strayed longingly toward the door. “Shall I – you know – step outside during the exam?”  
  
Draco latched onto his hand with incredible strength. “Oh no you don’t!” he fairly hissed. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with _her_!”  
  
Eyeing the young medi-witch, Harry’s brow knit. “Uhm, why not?” She looked harmless enough.  
  
Leaning in closer, Draco whispered. “Have you gone mad? I’ve had death threats since we made the front page of the Daily Prophet two weeks ago.”  
  
“ And that would be different from any other day, how?” Harry responded, flinching even before Draco smacked his arm. “Okay, okay. Kidding.” Draco was so easy to wind up. Smiling down at his lover, he desperately wished they were alone.   
  
Draco mock-frowned. “Don’t try to get around me by looking at me that way, Potter.”  
  
The rush of blood to his cock and face shouldn’t have surprised Harry at all. He loved it when Draco called him ‘Potter.’ Almost purring, he leaned in, his upper body subtly rubbing against Draco’s.  
  
The witch “hmmphed” rattling the file in front of her.  
  
Okay, maybe not so subtly after all.  
  
“See what I mean?” Draco’s tone was quiet but triumphant. “Leave me alone with that witch and she’ll probably hex me six different ways to Sunday.”  
  
Judiciously choking back a laugh, Harry glanced down at the indignant man next to him. “Why would she do that exactly? Oath to heal and all that, darling?”  
  
“Don’t ‘darling’ me, either,” Draco whispered. “I’m telling you. Ever since I took the wizarding world’s poster boy off the market, I’ve been getting death threats!”  
  
Harry brightened. “Really?” He preened, stretching his neck toward the dirty window, frowning that it marred his reflection, but smoothing an errant lock of hair nonetheless. “How flattering.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of all the! I really don’t think strengthening this bond is a good idea, you know.” His eyebrow swept up into his fringe. “You are already insufferable. Any more infusion of ‘Malfoy Modesty’ might just do me in.”  
  
Chortling full on now, Harry pulled away. “You’re joking, right? I’m just getting you back for all the years I’ve had to put up with your particular brand of ‘modesty’ as you call it.”   
  
He turned to the witch who had been attempting to maintain some decorum. “When we redirect the bond, we’ll both be getting more of the other one’s emotions and attributes bleeding over, yes?”  
  
“You will.” Her frown deepened considerably.  
  
“How difficult will it be to control?” Harry enquired.  
  
She looked from one to the other and then back to Harry. “You’ll be meeting with a healer weekly, to help you adjust.” If possible, her expression grew even grimmer. “Bonds of these type aren’t done these days. It will take time and effort to learn to control the flow between you. You’ll need to practice.” She paused, and then looked down her nose at them. “Perhaps more than others.”   
  
“Pardon?” Draco’s entire body strained forward. Harry caught him lightly by the wrist.   
  
Shaking him off like a bit of dung on his shoe, Draco’s voice grew louder. “What does that mean?”  
  
She turned to him, and sniffed. “Your exploits – both of you – are well known. You both have strong…personalities.”  
  
Harry hid his chuckle behind a cough, and Draco snorted like an impatient racehorse.  
  
She continued, her voice dripping with scorn. “It will be a challenge.”   
  
Now Harry’s own chin rose in defiance: how _dare_ she? He put his arm around Draco, pulling him close. “We’ve overcome far more insurmountable challenges – both of us.”  
  
For once, Draco didn’t seem to mind Harry’s possessive posturing. He was all Malfoy when he spoke. “If you will, please: perform the necessary tests and then let’s get this bond strengthened, shall we?”  
  
  
  
  
  
 **4pm**  
  
Harry had just seen Draco off home. The testimony they’d had to re-give regarding the injuries sustained by Draco at Ron’s inquiry had been grueling. For both of them. While Harry wanted nothing more than to follow Draco through the floo home, where they could hide out for a few days, preferably doing nothing that required them to leave their bedroom, Harry’s heart was heavy. There was one last thing he needed to do.  
  
Harry let himself into the anteroom outside the courtroom. The guard on duty nodded with a quick jerk of his head as he moved aside.  
  
Ron looked up from where he sat, slumped on the hardwood chair.   
  
The room was damp, uncomfortable. Harry suppressed a shiver, and thought about what the magically induced cold said about the people who were in charge of those under investigation.   
  
“Did you come here to save me too?” Ron sneered.   
  
Forcing himself to remain calm, Harry slid into the chair across the rough-hewn table from the man who had been his best friend since childhood. He chose his words carefully. “I came down to testify on your behalf, yes.” He clenched his fists under the table.   
  
Ron eyed Harry, disgust written on every line of his face. “I’m surprised.” Ron snorted. “Cause some marital strife at home, I hope?”  
  
Harry felt his fingernails biting into his palms. He imagined there would be blood before he was through here. “Draco – ” he paused, letting his partner’s name linger in the air. “Draco trusts me to make my own decisions, besides, he understood – ”   
  
“ – oh he understood, did he?” Ron’s voice dripped sarcasm. “How wonderful for you, Harry. Everything always works out for you, doesn’t it?”   
  
Harry’s breathing hitched, and he felt his magic beginning to rise. Since Draco had been teaching him how to perform wandless magic, he’d been caught unawares at the flood of power several times, harking back to that summer he’d blown up Aunt Marge. The torches flickered and flared, threatening to go out all together. A hot breeze swept through the room, ruffling both their hair and their robes. Now would not be the time to lose his temper.  
  
Ron’s eyes flew open, wide with fear. He pushed back into his chair. “I heard about the bloody display you two put on: him handing his wand over to you, doors slamming open with just a twitch of his hand. What did he do to you?”   
  
“Nothing I didn’t want to happen,” Harry responded. He hoped Ron caught the warning in his tone. He’d be damned if he’d talk about Draco to Ron.   
  
An uncomfortable silence hung between them as the torches righted themselves, and the room temperature returned to damp clamminess.  
  
Finally Ron broke the quiet. “Don’t do me any favors now, Potter. You pick a helluva time to turn up. Where the hell have you been for the last 5 years, Mate?” Ron was breathing heavy, fists clenched on the table in front of him. “You’re the fucking poster boy for all things conspicuous consumption! You bloody turned into Draco Malfoy to the power of ten!”   
  
The blow of Ron’s words stunned Harry. Where had this come from? He forced himself to remain calm as Ron continued gathering steam.   
  
“You left me behind! Drinking and carousing with the likes of Dean and his model pretty friends! We took you in when you had nobody!” He gestured wildly at Harry. “I bet that set of robes cost more than a year of my wages!”   
  
Ron was on a roll now.“You’re the bloody seeker for Chudley! You didn’t even like that team until I introduced you to them!”  
  
‘Guest Seeker’, Harry thought to himself, but doubted Ron would see the distinction.   
  
Anger flashed in Harry and as Ron drew a breath, Harry lashed out, slamming his fist on the table. “Cut through the bullshit! Am I to believe that you knocked the shit out of Draco because I run with a glossy crowd or have been on the cover of Witch’s Weekly more times than I can count?”  
  
Images of Draco’s bruised flesh flashed in his mind, and Harry saw red. Acid flowed in his tone and the torches dipped dangerously. He slammed his fist down again, and sparks flew from the battered tabletop. “You knocked the shit out of a defenseless man over and over.” He deliberately paused for a beat. “Did that make you a man, Ron?”  
  
“Who the hell are you to talk about being a man?” Ron roared back. They were suddenly centimeters apart as Ron lunged across the table. “Does buggering Draco Malfoy make you a man?” He broke off, breathing heavily, face beet red.   
  
They glared at each other, each fighting for control.   
  
Ron fell down into his chair. “How did he do it?” he asked. “How did he turn my best friend into a flaming fairy? You’ve always liked women! Always!” He drew a sharp breath. “Why Draco Malfoy? Merlin! You could have anybody you ever wanted, Harry? Anyone! Anyone.”   
  
Harry felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and could hear Ron’s labored breathing from across the too small table. _“Anyone! Anyone,”_ echoed in Harry’s head. He was missing something. He could almost reach out pluck it from the air between them. What the hell was it? Looking up he saw misery etched on Ron’s face, his eyes filled with tears. _Tears?_  
  
Their eyes locked. Truth spilled out, unspoken. Breathing shallowly, Harry pushed back in his chair. His mouth forming a soundless ‘O’.   
  
He thought back to all the things boys get up to in the dorm or locker rooms. He’d never had any indication that it was more to Ron than just boys messing around. Shaking off the memory, he returned to the present. “Ron – I,”  
  
“Don’t you dare!” Ron’s voice broke. “I mean it, Harry. Don’t you dare apologize for – please, just don’t.” He looked around, his gaze wild as he seemed to be searching for some escape. Anything to keep from looking at Harry.  
  
Harry stood up abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it cracked like a shot as it hit the wall behind him. Images of the early years of their friendship spun dizzily in his head: Ron teaching him about Chocolate Frogs; his first Christmas at Hogwarts when he’d received the first ever gifts of his life: a sweater knitted by Mrs. Weasley, his father’s invisibility cloak. Ron sacrificing himself on the chess board in their quest to protect the Sorcerer’s Stone. Harry felt his eyes burn, and he swallowed over the lump in his throat.  
  
Harry had spent many hours over the last few weeks trying to understand how Ron could have changed so completely from the warm little boy he’d met so many years ago. While he could sympathize that the war had changed his once best friend, Harry couldn’t forget the purple and swollen bruises on Draco’s chest, his broken ribs.   
  
They’d all made choices: some good, some bad. Harry steeled himself for what he had to say. “I can never repay all the things you and your family did for me, Ron.” He stopped, and his throat worked helplessly for a moment. “But I will not live without Draco. We are bound. Nothing is ever going to change that.” Harry felt his eyes fill, and damned his own idiocy. “After what you’ve done – I don’t think.” He broke off. “No matter what your reasons, you need help.”  
  
Ron’s head dropped to his chest. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know. I’m sorry.” He looked up, eyes brimming with emotion.   
  
Where once Harry might have felt sympathy for his friend’s bitterness and his losses, all he could see was the shadow of brutality in eyes that were all too reminiscent of Vernon Dursley. He heard the echo of Draco’s testimony ringing in his ears. He’d read the medical reports for fuck’s sake. “Good-bye Ron.”  
  
Ron pressed his lips together, nodding his head. Resignation lined his face. He didn’t speak.   
  
Harry refused to look back as he left the room, barely nodding at the guard as he walked outside. His eyes filled as he silently berated himself once again for his complicity in Draco’s suffering, and perhaps even in Ron’s. Unseeing, he walked straight into –   
  
“Draco!” Harry’s hands came up reflexively to catch the other wizard as he blinked back the moisture in his eyes, and shook his head, trying to clear it. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Draco was scrutinizing him. He spoke slowly. “I thought you might need a friendly face.” Draco looked over Harry’s shoulder toward the room he’d just exited. “Either way, I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”  
  
Almost collapsing into his lover’s arms, he was shocked at the gratitude that he felt as his body seemed to drink in Draco’s magic. Clinging, he wasn’t surprised when he heard Draco utter a concealment charm, and felt the shimmer of magic surround them. He was silent for a moment, luxuriating in the strength of his partner. “I thought I put you in the floo,” he murmured into silken hair, his lips brushing that majestic neck. “You need to – ” Harry broke off his admonishment that Draco should be home when it suddenly struck him what he’d had said. “What do you mean ‘either way’?”  
  
Draco gave him a level look.  
  
Harry blinked. He couldn’t mean? “You didn’t think I’d choose him? Or even forgive him?!”   
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time you chose him over me.”  
  
Harry stared down into painfully wide silver eyes. Eyes that silently begged for yet feared his response. The voice was that of a hurt eleven year old and Harry wanted to simultaneously strangle and pull him even closer, promising ‘never again’.   
  
Almost viciously, he dragged Draco closer, burying his face back in the platinum blond hair, inhaling in the spicy-chocolate scent of Draco that had already come to mean ‘home.’ He felt Draco relax. “I was wrong, Draco, all those years ago on the train,” Harry began. “I guess I couldn’t tell the wrong sort for myself.” He pulled back and looked into swimming silver eyes. “Still want the job?”  
  
Draco sucked in a gulp of air, blinking rapidly. “I can help you there.” His voice was almost steady. He pulled back from Harry and extended his hand.  
  
It wasn’t empty for long.   
  
_~fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to L_Morgan for her beta.


End file.
